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THE   LIFE   AND   LETTERS 
OF   ALFRED   AINGER 


aij-'ui-:d   Ai.N(ii-;R. 

PROM    A    PORTRAir     BY    MR     MUOll    RIVIIERE. 


THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

OF 

ALFRED   AINGER 


BY 

EDITH     SICHEL 


NEW    YORK 
E.    P.    DUTTON    AND    COMPANY 

1906 


»  • 


Edinburgh  :  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 


-  f  C  <     ' 


TO 

MARGARET   ROSCOW 

THE   NIECE   AND   COMPANION 

OF    ALFRED    AINGER 


February  1906. 


O  t.  J"  «^  sl5  O  O 


PREFACE 

The  only  reason  for  writing  any  preface  to  this  little  volume 
is  that  it  provides  me  with  a  means  of  giving  thanks  to  those 
who  have  helped  me  by  criticisms  and  suggestions,  and  by 
their  memories  of  Canon  Ainger.  I  therefore  take  this 
occasion  of  expressing  my  great  gratitude  to  Mr.  Birrell,  to 
Dr.  Ward  (Master  of  Peterhouse),  to  Mr.  Gosse,  to  Mr. 
Horace  Smith,  to  Mr.  R.  C.  Browne,  to  Mr.  Birdwood,  to 
Canon  Beeching,  and  to  Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas,  for  the  valuable 
assistance  they  have  given  me. 

I  have  also  to  convey  my  thanks  to  those  who  have  enabled 
me  to  print  so  many  letters  from  Canon  Ainger,  as  well  as 
some  written  to  him ;  and  in  this  connection  I  should  like 
to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  Mr.  A.  C.  Swinburne  in  allow- 
ing me  to  publish  a  letter  written  by  himself. 

My  thanks  are  no  less  due  to  Messrs.  Murray,  and  to  the 
Editor  of  the  Quarterly,  for  consenting  that  I  should  embody 
in  this  book  some  parts  of  an  article,  '  Canon  Ainger,'  which 
I  wrote  for  that  periodical  in  January  1905 ;  and  to  Messrs. 
Macmillan  for  giving  me  permission  to  make  use  of  extracts 
from  Canon  Ainger's  published  works.  Also  to  Miss  Johnston, 
who  has  allowed  me  to  reproduce  the  photographs  privately 
taken  by  her — the  two  of  Alfred  Ainger  in  his  youth,  as  well 
as  the  one  of  his  father. 

February  11,  1906. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

I.  EARLY    YEARS, 

II.  CAMBRIDGE,  .  .  .  , 

III.  THE    LION, 

IV.  BEGINNINGS    OF    LIFE, 

V.    ALREWAS    AND    SHEFFIELD, 
VI.    AT   THE   TEMPLE  :    18G6-1873, 
VII.    LONDON   AND    ITS    FRIENDSHIPS  :    1873-1876, 
VIII.    AT   HAMPSTEAD  :    1876-1880,  . 
IX.    DU    MAURIER, 
X.    LETTERS  :   1880-1892, 
XI.    LECTURER    AND    CRITIC, 
XII.    AINGEr's    HUMOUR, 

XIII.  ALFRED    AINGER    AND    CHARLES    LAMB, 

XIV.  CORRESPONDENCE    ABOUT    CHARLES    LAMB, 
XV.   LETTERS  :    1892-1896, 

XVI.    LIFE    AND    LETTERS  :    1897-1903, 
XVII.    THE    PREACHER, 
XVIII.    LATER    WRITINGS,     . 
XrX.    THE    END, 
INDEX, 


PAGE 
1 

32 

51 

62 

73 

87 

103 

117 

133 

149 

185 

206 

216 

237 

257 

282 

310 

326 

340 

351 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

ALFRED    AINGER,    .....        FvOntispkce 

From,  a  portrait  by  Hugh  Riviere. 

AT    PAGE 

MR.    AINGER    (ALFRED    AINGER's    FATHEr),  .  .  4 

From  a  •photograph. 

MRS.    AINGER    (ALFRED    AINGER's    MOTHEr),  .  .  9 

From  a  miniature. 


ALFRED   AINGER    AT    SEVENTEEN,    . 

Frcrni  a  photograph  hy  Miss  Johnston. 

ALFRED    AINGER   IN   YOUTH, 

From  a  photograph  hy  Miss  Johnston. 


25 


32 


ADELINE    ROSCOW   (ALFRED    AINGER's    SISTEr),  .  .  90 

From  a  pihotograph. 

ALFRED    AINGER    AT   FIFTY,  .  .  .185 

From  a  photograph  by  Messrs.  Elliot  and  Fry, 


CHAPTER    I 

EARLY    YEARS 

Alfred  Ainger  was  born  on  February  9,  1837.  On  his 
father's  side  he  came  of  French  Huguenot  stock,  as,  indeed, 
we  might  have  expected,  when  we  recall  the  gifts  that  made 
him  unique — his  Gallic  power  of  being  serious  without  being 
solemn — his  union  of  grace  and  quickness  with  an  almost 
Puritan  sobriety.  He  himself  found  pleasure  in  his  descent. 
'  As  you  say,'  he  wrote  to  a  connection  ^  in  1898, '  there  is  not 
much  inducement  just  now  to  wish  to  provide  ourselves  with  a 
French  origin  ;  but  I  confess  the  idea  of  having  some  Celtic 
blood  in  me  is  not  displeasing.  I  wish  indeed  you  may  trace  us 
up  a  little  closer  to  the  events  of  1685.  There  can,  I  think,  be  no 
doubt  whatever  as  to  our  Huguenot  origin.  The  coincidences 
(of  craft  and  calling)  are  too  marked  to  be  merely  coincidences.' 

His  forebears  had  been  silk-weavers,  and  he  was  delighted 
when,  one  day  in  Spitalfields,  two  French  weavers,  who  recog- 
nised him,  came  up  and  claimed  relationship  with  him  on  the 
strength  of  their  name  being  Anger.  From  the  fact  of  this 
traditional  craft  he  drew  scientific  conclusions  of  his  own. 

'  It  is  very  interesting,'  he  says  to  the  same  correspondent, 
William  Ainger,  '  to  trace  the  Huguenot  trade  of  silk  occupy- 
ing the  family  so  long.  It  is  perhaps  this  inherited  associa- 
tion with  silk  gowns  that  has  brought  about,  by  a  subtle 
association,  my  now  long  connection  with  the  Bar.' 

And  he  writes  elsewhere  to  Mr.  Ainger: — 

'  I  discovered  a  curious  fact  in  connection  with  our  name  when 

1  Mr.  William  Ainger.  He  and  Alfred  Ainger  had  a  great-great-grandfather 
in  common. 

A 


2  LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

I  was  (for  the  first  time  in  my  life)  in  Ireland  this  autumn.  In 
the  Huguenot  quarter  of  Dublin  is  a  street  called  "Aungier 
Street,"  and  it  certainly  looks  as  if  some  namesakes  of  ours,  if  not 
relatives,  must  have  given  the  street  its  name.  Were  you  avv^are 
of  the  fact  ?  I  presume  we  hail  from  the  city  of  Angers — of 
which  later  spellings  are  perhaps  attempts  to  represent  the  pro- 
nunciation of  the  French.  ...  I  am  very  sensible  indeed  of  the 
services  you  have  rendered  and  are  still  rendering  to  those  of  our 
name.  I  hope  your  children  thrive,  and  will  hand  it  down  still 
further.  ...  I  thank  you  sincerely  .  .  .  for  the  charming  por- 
traits of  your  two  boys — who  seem,  among  other  things,  to  partake 
of  the  esprit  gaulois,  to  which  our  Huguenot  descent  should  entitle 
them,  as  they  appear  to  have  a  fine  sense  offim.' 

There  is  little  to  be  known  about  Alfred  Ainger"'s  forebears 
and  relations,  and  it  seems  part  of  his  remote  and  fay-like 
personality  that  it  should  be  so.  But  his  own  saying  that 
'  one  must  never  talk  of  one's  relations,  or  one  might  at  any 
moment  become  a  bore,'  has  doubtless  something  to  do  with 
our  ignorance.  The  uncle  and  aunt  who  are  '  characters ' — 
the  old-world  grandmother  of  biography — are  here  lacking, 
though  the  names  of  his  predecessors,  Samuel  and  Nathaniel 
Ainger,  suggest  strong  wills  and  snuff-boxes  and  fixed  ideas 
about  the  French  Revolution.  The  only  traditional  presence 
we  can  find  is  that  of  the  nurse  common  to  all  distinguished 
persons,  the  devoted  soul  who  charms  her  nursling's  infancy 
by  her  stories.  Such  an  one, '  Lem,'  cheered  Alfred's  early  days, 
and,  settling  in  her  age  in  Staffordshire  was  faithfully  visited 
by  him  till  her  death.  And  when,  only  a  few  years  after- 
wards, he  himself  lay  dying,  he  constantly  murmured  her  name, 
wandering,  as  it  seemed,  among  the  tender  pieties  of  childhood. 

His  father,  Alfred  Ainger,  was  a  very  remarkable  man,  the 
son  of  Samuel  Ainger,  an  architect  settled  in  London,  who  had 
but  one  other  child,  a  daughter,  Margaret,  afterwards  Mrs. 
Nicol,  Alfred  Ainger,  the  elder,  pursued  his  parent's  pro- 
fession and  was  well-known  in  his  day,  especially  for  the 
building  of  University  College  Hospital  and  the  palm-house 
at  Kew,  which  caused  a  stir  in  its  time.  Perhaps  it  was  he 
who  endowed  his  son  with  that  love  of  form  which  always 
characterised  him,  in  his  life  and  talk  as  well  as  in  his  writings. 


EARLY  YEARS  3 

Another  bequest  that  the  elder  made  the  younger  was  wit. 
Mr.  Ainger  had  a  racy  tongue — there  was  plenty  of  salt  in  his 
conversation.  Many  of  his  sayings,  as  old  friends  record,  passed 
into  household  proverbs,  though  the  deplorable  lack  of  setting 
down  experiences  has  made  it  impossible  to  rescue  even  one  of 
them  from  out  the  gulf  of  oblivion.  '  I  can  see  his  funny 
twinkle  when  he  said  them — it  is  a  pleasure  to  think  of  him 
always,'  says  one,  who  was  often  in  his  house ;  and  his  sallies 
told  the  more  because  of  his  quiet,  dreamy  manner  and  easy- 
going ways.  People  were  often  misled  by  them  and  imagined 
him  to  be  'soft' — a  fact  which  would  at  once  have  been  refuted 
by  any  one  who  had  business  dealings  with  him.  Generous 
and  sensitive  and  shy,  he  did  not  reveal  himself  easily,  except 
in  intimacy,  over  a  keen  game  of  chess  (he  was  a  fine  player), 
or  in  talking  about  his  favourite  pursuits.  He  loved  books 
and  art — belonging  to  the  Fine  Arts  Society  and  boasting 
several  of  its  medals — but,  before  all  else,  he  loved  science. 
Mathematics  on  the  one  hand,  the  microscope  on  the  other, 
absorbed  his  mind  and  his  leisure,  while  his  friendship  with 
Faraday  was  an  important  fact  in  his  life.  His  scientific  out- 
look told,  doubtless,  upon  his  thought.  An  attentive  student 
of  the  Bible,  as  his  marginal  notes  testify,  and  nominally  a 
Unitarian,  he  practically  maintained  a  free  attitude  to  all 
religious  bodies  and  attended  neither  church  nor  chapel. 
'  Why  have  we  been  told  so  much,  and  yet  so  little  .^^  he  used 
to  exclaim  regretfully;  and  thus  he  remained — in  the  realm 
outside  conviction  of  any  kind. 

Those  that  knew  him  did  not  forget  him,  and  his  calm  but 
astute  personality  stamped  itself  upon  the  memory  of  the 
young  friends  whom  Alfred  brought  home.  '  His  father,' 
writes  one  of  these,  '  I  can  only  recall  as  a  quiet  figure,  receiv- 
ing his  son's  companions  kindly,  but  with  a  certain  nervous 
aloofness — a  diffidence  akin  to  Colonel  Newcome's  in  like 
circumstances.  I,  the  least  effervescent  of  that  youthful  band, 
was,  perhaps,  alone  in  my  consciousness  of  an  observant  eye 
noting  our  "  tricks  and  manners."  In  my  remembrance  I 
think  of  him  as  of  Milton's  father,  keenly  interested  in  his  son, 
guiding  without  interference,  and  always  ready  to  withdraw 


4  LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

into  his  own  elder  thoughts,  as  the  other  old  gentleman  did 
to  "  his  rest  and  devotion,"  and  like  him,  I  think,  "  without 
the  least  trouble""  imaginable — none  certainly  that  his  son 
could  spare  him."" 

The  face  that  his  portrait  shows  us  has  something  of  the 
actor,  a  good  deal  of  the  tliinker,  still  more  of  the  artist  about 
it.  It  is  massive,  with  full  lips,  shrewd  eyes  and  a  broad  brow, 
framed  by  thick  hair  growing  high  as  if  it  had  visible  vitality, 
and,  whatever  else  it  may  be,  it  is  essentially  the  face  of  a 
humorist.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this  fact,  it  bears  not  the  slightest 
resemblance  to  the  frail  fantastic  countenance  of  his  son,  and 
is  as  solid  and  as  literal,  if  we  may  say  so,  as  the  other  is 
ethereal  and  elusive.  While  still  young  he  came  to  London, 
and  in  1828  he  married  Miss  Jagger  of  Liverpool.  The 
Jaggers  were  a  musical  family,  the  mother  possessing  a  remark- 
able voice,  while  the  four  daughters  were  gifted  musicians, 
and  two  of  them  taught  their  art  with  considerable  success. 
They  were  all  skilful  verse-writers,  too,  and  used  to  amuse 
their  leisure  moments  by  writing  poems  to  one  another. 

Mr.  Ainger  and  his  wife  settled  first  in  Doughty  Street, 
then  in  John  Street,  Southampton  Row.  At  10  Doughty 
Street  his  four  children  were  born — a  much-loved  boy  who 
died  at  five  years  old ;  then  two  girls,  Adeline  in  1830,  and 
Marianne  in  1835;  lastly  Alfred,  in  1837.  When  he  was 
only  two  his  mother  died,  and  the  sensitive  spirit  that 
most  needed  her  never  knew  what  her  love  would  have 
meant. '  '  If  any  excuse  will  be  allowed  to  a  man  at  the  great 
day  of  judgment,  will  it  not  be  to  him  who  can  say,  "  Lord,  I 
never  knew  my  Mother"?' — so  he  wrote  in  his  notebook 
twenty-four  years  later.  All  the  more  did  his  elder  sister, 
Adeline,  seven  years  his  senior,  take  her  place  and  inspire  in 
his  childish  heart  a  feeling  which  swayed  him  more  than  any 
other,  and  which,  from  his  infancy  onwards,  took  on  it  the 
tinge  of  romance.  In  these  first  days  he  was  the  pride  and 
pleasure  of  his  father,  who  delighted  in  this  responsive  little 
boy.  He  took  especial  pleasure  in  his  movements,  and  used 
to  flick  him  with  his  handkerchief  to  make  him  dance,  an 
accomplishment   which  the   baby  excelled   in,   tripping  and 


EARLY  YEARS  5 

turning  like  a  fairy  with  quick,  windlike  motions.  The  child 
in  this  was  father  to  the  man,  for  the  gift  never  left  him, 
although  in  his  clerical  days  he  had  not  the  same  scope  for 
it.  It  was  the  counterpart  of  his  other  attainment,  his 
whistling — shrill,  silvery  and  birdlike — which  also  began  in 
early  days,  as  if  the  fairies  had  bestowed  an  elfin  pipe  upon 
him  at  his  christening.  Little  letters  signed  'Your  affection- 
ate Scaramouch';  round-hand  records  of  how  high  he  swung 
and  how  he  got  on  with  his  Latin  ;  '  Villain,"'  the  playful 
nickname  by  which  '  Scaramouch '  retaliated  upon  his  father 
— all  these  signs,  small  in  themselves,  show  the  ease  and  good- 
fellowship  between  them,  and  their  jokes  together  made  the 
merriment  of  the  household.  But  Mr.  Ainger  married  again, 
and  this  fact,  coupled  with  the  speedy  advent  of  a  second 
family,  doubtless  made  some  difference  in  his  subsequent 
intercourse  with  the  first.  Alfred's  childhood  continued, 
however,  to  be  a  happy  one,  as  outwardly  eventless  and  in- 
wardly eventful  as  childhood  is  wont  to  be.  One  real  episode 
was  a  trip  that  he  took  at  seven  years  old  with  his  stepmother 
and  elder  sister  to  Coblentz,  to  visit  his  Aunt  Nicol  there. 
It  was  his  first  peep  into  foreign  lands  and  it  may  have  left 
with  him  that  love  of  the  Rhine  which  he  always  kept,  and 
some  sweet  echo  of  German  music  to  haunt  him  in  after  years. 
One  of  his  cousins  can  remember  how  he  sketched  ;  how  eagerly 
he  listened  to  the  story  of  Ulysses  with  which  she  beguiled  his 
walks  with  her;  and  how  she  tried  to  teach  him  German,  all 
in  vain,  the  only  words  he  mastered  being  Du  hist  ein  Schwein, 
which  he  picked  up  for  himself  and  used  as  repartee  to  those 
who  vexed  him.  But  he  soon  returned  to  England  and 
normal  life,  and  a  letter  that  he  wrote  this  same  year  to  his 
crony,  '  Jocky,'  shows  the  pursuits  that  filled  his  days. 

'  My  DEAn  JocKY, — I  should  like  you  to  come  and  see  me  very 
much,  for  I  have  got  a  very  nice  studio  to  take  all  ray  friends  in 
when  we  want  to  have  a  little  private  conversation. 

'  I  have  got  a  statue  and  some  very  fine  oil-paintings  in  it,  and 
a  I'eading-desk  and  a  pair  of  globes.  I  heard  the  other  day  it  was 
your  birthday,  it  is  only  a  few  weeks  since  mine.  I  was  7  on  the 
ninth  of  February. 


6  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  I  have  just  finished  writing  a  book^  which  I  have  called  Rambles 
in  Wales,  it  has  14  pages  in  it  you  shall  read  it  when  you 
come  here.  I  have  got  a  delightful  book  called  the  Rejected 
Addresses.  I  have  read  it  through  a  great  many  times.  I  think 
you  would  like  it  too. — Your  friend,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

The  '  I  have  read  it  through  a  great  many  times.  I  think 
you  would  like  it  too ' — the  settling,  bee-like,  inside  the  book 
he  loved  till  he  had  got  all  its  honey — the  quickness  and 
sobriety  of  judgment,  above  all  the  need  of  a  companion  with 
whom  to  share  his  enjoyment — these  traits  of  his  at  seven 
years  old  remained  as  characteristic  at  sixty-seven.  Indeed 
his  tastes,  man  or  child,  at  any  period  of  his  life,  are  summed 
up  in  this  little  note — talk  and  space  and  tranquil  privacy, 
diversified  by  the  pangs  and  joys  of  authorship  and  the 
pleasure  of  holiday  rambles  in  Wales  or  elsewhere. 

His  choice  too  of  Rejected  Addresses  was  significant  of 
what  came  after.  Parody  is  a  sympathetic  rather  than  a 
creative  gift,  and,  if  it  count  at  all,  must  mean  strong  literary 
sympathies,  and  actual  identification  with  the  authors  parodied. 
From  the  first  Alfred  showed  signs  of  his  parodying  wit  and 
of  the  strong  literary  affinities  which,  as  the  years  went  on, 
became  like  personal  partialities.  He  used  to  say  that  he 
owed  his  love  of  literature  to  Elegant  Extracts,  which  he 
constantly  studied  as  a  child,  and  that  the  other  book  which 
then  fascinated  him  was  a  cookery-book  to  which — so  he  liked 
to  say — he  ascribed  his  knowledge  of  food.  His  fancy  played 
round  all  that  he  read  and  lent  a  second  life  to  his  reading. 
But  Lamb's  Tales  soon  led  him  to  Shakespeare,  and  a  new 
world  opened  before  him. 

Books,  however,  were  not  his  only  resource.  From  the  first 
his  literary  sympathies  found  another  outlet — in  his  youth 
the  main  one — that  of  acting.  When  he  was  still  quite  small 
he  loved  to  act  a  part,  and  to  mystify,  even  in  the  commonest 
domestic  incidents  of  life.  The  only  story  of  his  childhood 
still  extant  is  characteristic  enough.  His  stepmother  had 
sent  him  upstairs  to  see  what  the  baby  of  the  moment  was 
about.  He  returned  with  a  grave  but  unconcerned  air :  '  The 
baby,'  he  said,  '  is  sucking  needles,  sitting  with  its  legs  hang- 


EARLY  YEARS 


ing  over  the  window-sill.''  As  he  grew  older,  the  actor  in 
him  grew  more  conscious — more  polished  is  perhaps  the  better 
word — and  he  and  his  sisters  were  always  acting.  Their 
Christmas  plays  became  the  events  of  the  neighbourhood. 
Adeline,  the  elder  sister,  was  a  musician  and  had  besides  a 
pretty  gift  for  versifying,  while  Marianne,  the  younger,  was 
more  like  him  in  wit,  although  her  tongue  was  more  caustic 
than  his.  Presently  Alfred  became  playwright  as  well  as  actor, 
and  the  programme  of  his  Midas,  a  drama  written  in  his  early 
teens  and  famous  in  his  own  circle,  is,  as  it  were,  an  epitome 
of  youth  and  festivity.  As  such,  it  is  worth  reproducing 
here,  unchastened  by  any  excision. 

NEVER  ACTED 

THEATRE  ROYAL,  CARLTON  HILL 

This  Evening 

Tuesday,  April  27th,  1852 

Will  be  produced  (First  Time)  an  entirely  New  and 
Original  Grand  Comico-Classicalj  Romantic,  Pathetic, 
Moral,  and  Musical  Burlesque,  composed  expressly  for 
the  Carlton  Hill  Company  by  Alfred  Ainger,  Jun., 
with  entirely  New  Scenery,  Dresses,  Decorations,  and 
Appointments,  entitled 

MIDAS 

Dramatis  Personce 


Midas  (King  of  Phrygia)  . 

Silenus  (a  Satyr,  a  little  overcome) 

Apollo 

Mercury    . 

Genius  oj  Burlesque 

Attendant  . 

Court  Executioner 

Anaxyra  (a  blooming  Princess) 


Mr.  A.  Ainger,  Jun. 

Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  Jun. 

Miss  Stone. 

Miss  M.  Ainger. 

Signor  Pasquinado. 

Mr.  W.  Elderton. 

Mr.  John  Ketch. 

Miss  Julia  Smalls. 


Dresses  by  Miss  M.  Ainger.     Scenery  by  Miss  Ainger. 
Sole  Lessee  and  Manager,  Mr.  A.  Ainger,  Jun. 

Previous  to  the  performance,  a  Brilliant  Overture  will  be 

performed  by  Mrs.  and  Miss  Ainger. 

Vivat  Regina, 


8  LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

The  play  did  not  only  boast  a  programme,  but  pen-and-ink 
illustrations  behind  the  scenes  by  Miss  Stone,  the  artist  of  the 
group — illustrations  full  of  Hessian  boots  and  pompous  '  pro- 
perties' and  obscure  jokes  which  must  once  have  set  a  troop 
of  young  people  laughing.  The  manuscript,  carefully  tran- 
scribed in  a  feminine  hand,  is  much  what  might  be  expected 
from  any  brilliant  boy  of  fifteen — full  of  squib-like  allusions 
and  extravagant  brilliance,  some  of  it  rather  elaborate,  as 
youthful  wit  is  wont  to  be.  Alfred's  acting  must  have  been 
much  more  remarkable  than  his  writing,  and  his  power  of 
transforming  himself  was,  from  the  beginning,  unique.  His 
powers  in  this  way  were  striking  enough  to  disturb  friends  as 
well  as  amuse  them.  In  Hampstead,  where  the  Aingers  often 
took  summer  lodgings,  there  was  a  certain  old  gentleman  of 
strict  views  and  regular  habits,  whose  large  family  of  boys 
and  girls  often  claimed  Alfred  as  master  of  their  revels.  His 
acting  had,  however,  so  subversive  an  effect  upon  the  sobriety 
of  the  house,  that  its  head,  perhaps  himself  affected,  found 
the  results  unendurable.  '  I  won't  have  that  damned  tragedian 
in  the  place!'  he  cried,  and  his  objurgation  is  the  highest 
testimonial  he  could  have  offered  to  the  innocent  actor  of 
fifteen. 

The  Aingers  had  other  friends  in  Hampstead,  chief  among 
them  the  Johnstons,  whose  town  house  in  Bayswater  Terrace 
Mr.  Ainger  had  built  for  them.  Then,  and  for  nearly  forty 
years  afterwards,  they  made  a  country  home  of  the  Manor 
House  at  North  End,  whose  hospitable  walls  and  garden  have, 
under  their  reign,  listened  to  so  many  notable  guests.  The 
Hampstead  of  those  days  Avas  a  little  rural  town,  with  its  own 
local  life  and  its  own  Assembly  Rooms,  where  it  held  its  choice 
Conversazioni.  The  Miss  Johnstons  were  about  the  same  age 
as  the  young  Aingers,  and  the  two  families  set  up  one  of  those 
close  relationships,  full  of  daily  meetings  and  neighbourly 
runnings  in  and  out,  so  much  more  possible  then  than  now. 
Neighbours  still  existed  as  a  I'ace,  not  a  name,  before  district 
railways  and  other  machines  abolished  them  and  their  reality, 
nor  was  it  yet  the  fashion  to  pack  the  day  so  full  with  distant 
engagements.     Distraction  is  a  great  leveller  of  character,  and 


Mrs.  AiNGEK. 

(alkred  ai.\<;ek's  moiher. ) 
l-'roin  a  )niiiiature. 


EARLY  YEARS  9 

sixty  and  odd  years  ago  there  was  more  originality  than  now. 
Directly  we  strive  for  a  quality,  as  nowadays  we  strive  for 
originality,  we  may  assume  that  it  is  dead  or  dying ;  and  the 
social  circles  of  the  forties  and  fifties  showed  more  unconscious 
independence  of  mind,  stronger  prejudices,  and  more  concen- 
trated warmth  than  are  at  present  common.  The  Johnstons 
can  still  remember  delightful  escapades  and  excursions  with 
the  Aingers :  an  expedition  to  Kew  by  carriage  with  postilions 
riding  before  ;  quips  and  quizzings,  exquisitely  funny  to  youth 
and  impossible  to  preserve;  or  innocent  impromptu  escapades 
— rhymed  letters  to  unknown  recipients,  and  valentines,  models 
of  epigram,  in  which  Adeline  especially  excelled.  Of  course 
all  were  alike  the  accomplices  of  the  inspiring  Alfred,  but  she 
had  a  vein  of  her  own  and  would  sometimes  start  forth  on 
independent  jokes. 

More  serious  matters  also  occupied  the  brother  and  his 
sisters.  There  were  books  as  well  as  play,  and  constant  keen 
literary  discussions  over  the  new  works  of  Kingsley  and  of 
Tennyson.  And  there  was  a  great  deal  of  music.  This  was 
Mrs.  Ainger's  chief  bond  with  her  step-children,  and  she  her- 
self was  no  inconsiderable  musician,  so  that  Alfred's  love  of 
music  was  early  fed  on  the  right  food  and  his  gift,  expressed 
in  singing,  found  due  training  from  the  outset. 

AVhen  he  was  twelve  years  old,  there  came  a  great  change  in 
his  life.  His  health  was  always  delicate,  necessitating  constant 
care,  and  till  now  he  had  been  sent  daily  to  University  College 
School,  which  was  close  to  his  second  home  in  John  Street. 
There  is  not  much  to  record  of  him  there  beyond  the  fact 
that,  at  eleven,  he  gained  the  first  prize  for  French.  But 
some  time  in  1849  his  parents  moved  to  St.  John's  Wood; 
and  that  same  year  they  sent  him  away  to  a  boarding-school 
at  Carlton  Hill,  an  event  that  bore  unlooked-for  results 
affecting  his  whole  course. 

It  here  becomes  necessary  to  sum  up  in  as  few  words  as 
possible  the  religious  conditions  under  which  he  had  been 
brought  up,  because  his  attitude  in  this  respect  was  always 
the  keynote  of  his  career.  These  conditions  were  unusual. 
His  father,  as  we  have  seen,  was  nominally  a  Unitarian,  and 


10  LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

so,  at  first,  was  his  stepmother,  though  not  much  more  devout 
than  her  husband  in  the  profession  of  her  creed.  In  later 
days,  under  the  influence  of  Mr.  Bellew,  the  well-known  flowery 
preacher,  Mrs.  Ainger  transferred  her  affections  to  the  Church 
of  England  and  had  all  her  family  baptized  according  to  its 
rites ;  but,  in  childish  days,  the  little  boy  was  taken  to  Uni- 
tarian services  and  was  brought  up  amid  a  Unitarian  society. 
The  atmosphere  of  his  home  was  not  religious,  and  both  he 
and  his  sister  Adeline  had  sensitive  and  spiritual  natures, 
yearning  for  faith  and  discipline,  for  warmth  and  light,  and 
finding  the  climate  of  home  uncongenial  to  their  instincts. 
The  school  at  Carlton  Hill  to  which  Alfred  now  went  was 
kept  by  a  man  remarkable  both  for  his  scholarship  and  char- 
acter, and  he  and  his  three  daughters,  soon  Alfred's  greatest 
friends,  were  keen  admirers  of  Frederick  Denison  Maurice, 
whom  they  regularly  went  to  hear  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Chapel. 
Hither  they  took  Alfred  every  Sunday  ;  and  it  was  here,  under 
the  religious  spell  of  that  great  personality — the  double  spell 
of  the  preacher  and  of  the  beautiful  ritual  now  his,  as  it  were, 
for  the  first  time — that  the  boy  at  last  found  what  he  had 
wanted.  The  religion  which  was  to  last  him  his  life,  to  com- 
fort and  restrain  and  uphold  him,  thus  came  to  him  not  as 
to  others.  It  came  as  a  great  emotion,  making  all  things  new, 
and  IMaurice  remained  its  representative.  The  remembrance 
of  his  sermons  did  not  fade  with  time.  *  There  is,' 
he  wrote  long  after,  '  one  among  them,  on  the  raising  of 
Lazarus,  simpler,  I  think,  than  his  wont,  and  presenting  fewer 
of  his  peculiar  difficulties  of  thought  and  style.  It  is  sixteen 
years  since  that  balmy  summer  afternoon  when  I  heard  him 
deliver  it  in  the  solemn,  quiet  chapel  of  Lincoln's  Inn ;  and 
even  as  I  write  I  see  the  "  prophets  blazoned  on  the  panes"  of 
the  ancient  windows,  and  look  up  to  that  living  prophet-face 
which  no  one  who  ever  saw  it  could  forget,  and  hear  once 

more 

' "  The  trembling  fervency  of  prayer 
With  which  he  led  our  souls  the  prayerful  way." ' 

That  same  prophet  inspired  him  till  the  last  days  of  his  life. 
'  Go  upstairs  and  look  at  Maurice's  portrait ;  it  will  do  you 


EARLY  YEARS  11 

good  to  see  his  face,'  he  said  to  a  young  man  who,  shortly 
before  his  death,  had  been  sitting  by  his  bedside  writing  his 
letters  for  him. 

Mr.  King,  his  schoolmaster,  had  methods  of  teaching  far  in 
advance  of  his  time.     An  enthusiast  for  the  classics  and  for 
literature,  he  could  not  bear  mechanical  lessons,  and  tried  to 
make  learning  part  of  life  instead  of  making  life  into  learning. 
To  his  pupils  he  was  ever  a  man  first,  not  a  pedagogue,  and 
more  than  one  of  them  has  since  made  a  mark  in  the  world. 
Here  Charles  Dickens  sent  his  sons,  and  so  did  Macready  the 
actor — their  appointed  lessons  are  set  down  side  by  side  with 
those  of  their  schoolmate  Alfred  Ainger ;  here,  too,  Frederic 
Harrison   began   life,  and  others  more  or  less  distinguished. 
There  was  no  academic  mustiness  in  the  school  atmosphere,  for 
the  Kings  had  interesting  friends  and  their  Thursday  evenings 
were  frequented  by  people  of  note,  by  Charles  Dickens  and 
Sir   Edwin   Landseer   and   by   Keightley,   the    writer.       Mr. 
King's  younger  girl  w-orked  with  the  boys,  and   began  and 
continued    Greek    with    Alfred ;    her  elder  sister,   Louisa,   a 
polished   and   deeply-versed    scholar,    taught    Greek    in    the 
school  and  was,  beside  her  father,  the  only  teacher  of  that 
tongue  there.     She  had  never  had  a  readier  pupil  than  the 
boy  who  now  entered  her  class,  for  Alfred,  hitherto  confined 
to  Latin,  was  enchanted  by  the  Greek  language  and,  spurred 
on  by  his  girl  companion,  who  vied  with  him  in  zeal,  over- 
came   the   rudiments    with    remarkable    speed   and    quickly 
plunged  into  Euripides.    Their  occupations,  however,  were  not 
always  scholastic.     As  quickly  as  Alfred  mastered  Greek  did 
he  grow  to  be  one  of  the  family,  and  his  Sunday  evenings  with 
them  remained,  as   his  letters  testify,  '  green  places '  in  his 
memory    long   after.     '  Where  's  Alfred  ? '  Mrs.  King  would 
ask  at  any  meal  at   which  he  was  a  few  minutes  late,  and 
Alfred  would  enter  soon  after,  often  with  some  little  dainty 
that  he  knew  she  fancied.     '  Where's  Alfred  ? '  became  indeed 
a  constant  refrain  on  the  lips  of  every  member  of  the  house- 
hold.    There  still  remains  a  frolic  sermon,  inscribed    to  his 
playfellow,  Gertrude  King,  on  the  text  '  Do  sit  still  and  be 
quiet ' — a  homily  divided  into  headings  and  directed  against 


12  LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

too  much  unselfishness.  The  same  '  Gertrude'  keeps  a  lively 
memory  of  a  churchgoing  not  so  solemn  as  usual,  an  occasion 
when  they  did  not  go  to  hear  Maurice  and  when  the  preacher 
took  the  Woman  of  Samaria  as  his  subject.  '  She  was,'  he 
said,  '  a  Avoman  of  remarkable  energy.  She  had  had  five 
husbands.'  Alfred's  companion  never  forgot  his  face,  nor  his 
form  trembling  with  suppressed  laughter  at  this  climax  of 
eloquence,  and  the  clergyman's  words  were  that  day  unforgotten 
by  at  least  two  members  of  his  flock. 

Alfred  Ainger's  school-life  had  some  unexpected  results, 
and  not  the  least  important  of  these  was  his  friendship  with 
Charles  Dickens,  whose  sons  were  Alfred's  comrades  at  school. 
'  I  have  seen  him  and  have  touched  him,'  was  all  that  he  could  say 
on  his  return  from  spending  the  evening  for  the  first  time  at 
the  great  man's  house.  The  relationship  in  itself  was  epoch- 
making  in  Ainger's  life,  but  it  had  a  more  direct  effect.  It 
moulded,  perhaps  we  should  rather  say  fashioned,  his  literary 
humour  and  his  outlook  upon  men ;  evoking  a  ready  response 
from  something  that  lay  already  there,  waiting  for  the  magician's 
wand  to  spring  into  life;  and,  once  for  all,  shaping  his 
dramatic  talent.  From  his  schooldays  and  for  several  years 
onwards,  Alfred  took  part  in  all  the  play-actings  at  Tavistock 
House,  with  the  emperor  of  fun,  Boz  himself,  as  stage- 
manager,  and  sometimes  as  fellow-actor.  Charles  Dickens 
found  an  apt  learner,  one  who  could  follow  nimbly  his  will-o'- 
the-wisp  leading,  flashing  back  some  of  his  own  light  upon 
him,  answering  genius  in  its  own  coin — smaller  change,  natur- 
ally, but  stamped  in  the  same  mint.  Dickens  delighted  in 
teaching  him  and  used  to  say  that  he  had  never  seen  so  docile 
a  pupil.  And  Ainger's  acting  at  sixteen  or  seventeen  must 
have  had  the  real  electric  quality,  since  his  singing  of  '  Miss 
Villikins'  in  the  part  of  Lord  Grizzle,  on  Twelfth  Night, 
1854,  caused  Thackeray  to  'roll  off  his  chair'  in  a  burst 
of  laughter  that  became  '  absurdly  contagious.'  The  play 
was  Fielding's  Tom  TJmmh,  and  was  acted  at  Tavistock 
House — it  is  Forster,  in  his  Life  of  Dickens^  who  chronicles  the 
episode.  Nor  does  Forster  speak  without  authority,  for  he  used 
to  take  part  in  these  high  revels.     Alfred  Ainger  himself  has 


EARLY  YEARS  13 

recorded  his  impressions  in  a  paper  that  was  written  some 
eighteen  years  later,  soon  after  the  death  of  Charles  Dickens, 
when  sorrow  had  sharpened  and  concentrated  the  remem- 
brance of  those  early  days,^ 

'  What  niffhts  have  we  seen  at  the  "  Mermaid  "  ! '  What  even- 
ings  were  those  at  Tavistock  House,  when  the  best  wit  and  fancy 
and  culture  of  the  day  met  within  its  hospitable  walls  !  There 
was  Thackeray,  towering  in  bodily  form  above  the  crowd,  even  as 
he  towered  in  genius  above  them  all,  save  only  one :  Jen-old, 
with  the  blue  convex  eye,  which  seemed  to  pierce  into  the  very 
heart  of  things  and  trace  their  subtle  resemblances  ;  Leech,  with 
his  frank  and  manly  beauty,  fresh  from  the  portrayal  of  "  Master 
Jacky,"  or  some  other  of  the  many  forms  of  boyhood  he  knew  so 
well:  Mark  Lemon,  "the  frolic  and  the  gentle"  (dear  to  all  us 
younger  ones,  irrespective  of  blood-relationship,  as  "  Uncle  Mark")  : 
Albert  Smith,  dropping  in  late  in  the  evening  after  a  two  or  three 
thousandth  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc,  but  never  refusing,  at  our 
earnest  entreaty,  to  sit  down  to  the  piano  and  sing  us  "  My  Lord 
Tomnoddy,"  or  his  own  latest  edition  of  "  Galignani's  Messenger  "  : 
Augustus  Egg,  with  his  dry  humour,  touching  from  contrast  with 
the  face  of  suffering  that  gave  sad  presage  of  his  early  death  : 
Frank  Stone,  the  kindly  neighbour  and  friend,  keen  as  any  of 
us  boys  for  his  part  in  the  after-piece  :  Stanfield,  with  the  beam- 
ing face,  ''a  largess  universal  like  the  sun,"  his  practised  hand 
and  brush  prompt  to  gladden  us  with  masterpieces  of  scene- 
painting  for  the  Lighthouse  or  the  Icefields :  and  last,  but  not 
here  to  be  dismissed  with  a  few  lines  only — our  bountiful  host, 
like  Triplet,  "  author,  manager,  and  actor  too  "  ;  organiser,  deviser, 
and  harmoniser  of  all  the  incongruous  assembled  elements ;  the 
friend  whom  we  have  so  lately  lost — the  incomparable  Dickens. 
...  In  one  sense  our  theatricals  began  and  ended  in  the  school- 
room. To  the  last  that  apartment  served  us  for  stage  and  audi- 
torium and  all.  But  in  another  sense  we  got  promotion  from  the 
children's  domain  by  degrees.  Our  earliest  efforts  were  confined 
to  the  children  of  the  family  and  their  equals  in  age,  though 
always  aided  and  abetted  by  the  good-natured  manager,  who 
improvised  costumes,  painted  and  corked  our  innocent  cheeks, 
and  suggested  all  the  most  effective  business  of  the  scene.  Our 
first  attempt  was  the  performance  of  Albert  Smith's  little  burletta 

^  Macinillan^s  Magazine,  1 871. 


14  LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

of  Guy  Fawkes,  which  appeared  originally  in  the  pages  of  his 
monthly  periodical,  the  Man  in  the  Moon  ;  at  another  time  we 
played  William  Tell,  from  the  late  Mr.  Robert  Brough's  clever 
little  volume,  A  Crac/cer  Bon-bon  for  Evening  Parties.  In  those 
days  there  were  still  extravaganzas  written  with  real  humour  and 
abundant  taste  and  fancy.  The  Bi-oughs,  Gilbert  a  Beckett,  and 
Mr.  Planche  could  write  rhymed  couplets  of  great  literary  excel- 
lence, without  ever  overstepping  the  bounds  of  reverence  and 
good  taste.  .  .  .  Mr.  Brough  brought  up  before  Gesler  for  "con- 
tempt of  hat "  ;  Albert,  his  precocious  son,  resolving  that,  as  to 
betraying  his  father,  "  though  torn  in  half,  I  '11  not  be  made  to 
split"  ;  and  when  he  comforts  his  father,  about  to  shoot  at  the 
apple,  by  assuring  him  that  he  is  "game,"  the  father  replying, 
"  Wert  thou  gatne,  I  would  preserve,  not  shoot  thee."  This  is 
drollery,  it  seems  to  us,  not  unworthy  of  Sydney  Smith  or  Hood, 
and  in  no  way  to  be  placed  in  the  same  catalogue  with  the 
vulgarities  and  inanities  of  a  later  brood. 

'  Another  year  found  us  more  ambitious,  and  with  stronger 
resources,  for  Mr.  Dickens  himself  and  Mr.  Mark  Lemon  joined 
our  acting  staff,  though,  with  kindly  consideration  for  their 
young  brethren,  they  chose  subordinate  parts.  In  Mr.  Planche's 
elegant  and  most  witty  fairy  exti-avaganza  of  Fortmiio  and  his 
Seven  Gifted  Servants,  Mr.  Dickens  took  the  part  of  the  old 
Baron  Dunover,  whose  daughters  so  valiantly  adopt  man's  attire 
and  go  to  the  wars ;  Mr.  Lemon  contenting  himself  with  the  role 
of  the  Dragon,  who  is  overcome  by  Fortunio's  stratagem  of  adulter- 
ating the  well,  whither  he  usually  resorted  to  quench  his  thirst, 
with  a  potent  admixture  of  sherry.  What  fun  it  was,  both  on  and 
off  the  stage  !  The  gorgeous  dresses  from  the  eminent  costumier 
of  the  Theatres  Royal;  our  heads  bewigged  and  our  cheeks 
rouged  by  the  hands  of  Mi*.  Clarkson  himself;  the  properties 
from  the  Adelphi ;  the  unflagging  humour  and  suggestive 
resources  of  our  manager,  who  took  upon  him  the  charge  of  every- 
thing, from  the  writing  of  the  playbills  to  the  composition  of 
the  punch,  brewed  for  our  refreshment  between  the  acts,  but 
"craftily  qualified,"  as  Michael  Cassio  would  have  said,  to  suit 
the  capacities  of  the  childish  brain,  for  Dickens  never  forgot  the 
maxima  reverentia  due  to  children,  and  some  of  us  were  of  very 
tender  age :  the  comedian  who  played  (in  a  complete  jockey's 
suit  and  top-boots)  Fortunio's  servant  Lightfoot  was — we  are 
afraid  to  say  how  young — but  it  was  somewhere  between  two 
and  three,  and  he  was  announced  in  the  bill  as  having  been 


EARLY  YEARS  15 

"  kept  out  of  bed  at  a  vast  expense."  The  same  veracious 
document  represented  the  sole  lessee  and  manager  of  the 
Theatre  Royal,  Tavistock  House,  as  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,  dis- 
guising Mr.  Dickens  himself  in  the  list  of  dramatis  personce  as 
the  "Modern  Roscius/'  and  Mark  Lemon  as  the  "Infant  Pheno- 
menon"— an  exquisitely  conceived  surprise  for  the  audience,  who 
by  no  means  expected  from  the  description  to  recognise  in  the 
character  the  portly  form  of  the  editor  of  Ptmch.  The  time,  by 
the  way,  must  have  been  the  winter  preceding  the  commence- 
ment of  hostilities  with  Russia,  for  Mr.  Dickens  took  advantage 
of  there  being  a  ferocious  despot  in  the  play — the  Emperor 
Matapa — to  identify  him  with  the  Czar  in  a  capital  song  (would 
we  could  recall  it !)  to  the  tune  of  "  The  Cork  Leg,"  in  which 
the  Emperor  described  himself  as  "the  Robinson  Crusoe  of 
absolute  state,"  and  declared  that  though  he  had  at  his  Court 
"many  a  show-day  and  many  a  high-day,"  he  hadn't  in  all  his 
dominions  "a  Friday!"  Mr.  Planche  had  in  one  portion  of  the 
extravaganza  put  into  the  mouth  of  this  character  for  the  moment 
a  few  lines  of  burlesque  upon  Macbeth,  and  we  remember  Mr. 
Dickens's  unsuccessful  attempt  to  teach  the  performer  how  to 
imitate  Macready,  whom  he  (the  performer)  had  never  seen ! 
And  after  the  performance,  when  we  were  restored  to  our 
evening-party  costumes,  and  the  schoolroom  was  cleared  for 
dancing,  still  a  stray  "  property  "  or  two  had  escaped  the  vigilant 
eye  of  the  property-man ;  for  Douglas  Jerrold  had  picked  up  the 
horse's  head  (Fortunio's  faithful  steed  Comrade),  and  was  holding 
it  up  before  the  greatest  living  animal  painter,  with  "  Looks  as 
if  it  knew  you,  Edwin !  " 

'  Another  time  we  attempted  Fielding's  Tom  Thumb,  using 
O'Hara's  altered  version,  further  abridged  and  added  to  by  the 
untiring  master  of  our  ceremonies.  Fielding's  admirable  piece 
of  mock-heroic  had  always  been  a  favourite  of  Charles  Dickens. 
It  has  often  been  noticed  how  rarely  he  quotes  in  his  books,  but 
the  reader  of  Pickwick  will  remember  how  in  an  early  chapter  of 
that  immortal  work  Mr.  Alfred  Jingle  sings  the  two  lines : — 

"  In  hurry,  post-haste,  for  a  licence. 
In  hurry,  ding-song,  I  come  back." 

They  are  from  Lord  Grizzle's  song  in  Tom  Thumb.  Mr.  Lemon 
played  the  giantess  Glumdalca,  in  an  amazing  get-up  of  a  com- 
plete suit  of  armour  and  a  coal-scuttle  bonnet ;  and  Mr.  Dickens 
the  small  part  of  the  ghost  of  Gaffer  Thumb,  singing  his  own 


16  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

song,  on  the  occasion,  a  verse  of  which  may  be  quoted,  if  only  to 
illustrate  the  contrast  between  the  styles  of  the  earlier  and  later 
burlesques.  In  O'Hara's  version  the  ghost  appeai-s  to  King 
Arthur,  singing : — 

"  Pale  death  is  prowling. 
Dire  omens  scowling 
Doom  thee  to  slaughter. 
Thee,  thy  wife  and  daughter  ; 
Furies  are  growling 
With  horrid  groans. 
Grizzle's  rebellion 
What  need  I  tell  you  on  ? 
Or  by  a  red  cow 
Tom  Thumb  devour'd  ? 
Hark  the  cock  crowing,    [Cock  crows.] 
I  must  be  going. 
I  can  no  more  !  "     [Vanishes."] 

Mr.  Dickens's  substituted  lines  were,  as  nearly  as  we  remember, 
the  following : — 

"  I  've  got  up  from  my  churchyard  bed. 
And  assumed  the  perpendicular. 
Having  something  to  say  in  my  head. 
Which  isn't  so  very  particular  ! 
I  do  not  appear  in  sport, 
But  in  earnest,  all  danger  scorning — 
I  'm  in  your  service,  in  short, 
And  I  hereby  give  you  warning — 

[Cock  crows.] 
Who 's  dat  crowing  at  the  door .'' 
Dere  's  some  one  in  the  house  with  Dinah  ! 
I'm  called  (so  can't  say  more) 
By  a  voice  from  Cochin  China  !  " 

Nonsense,  it  may  be  said,  all  this;  but  the  nonsense  of  a  great 
genius  has  always  something  of  genius  in  it. 

'  The  production  next  year,  on  the  same  stage,  of  the  drama  of 
The  Lighthouse,  marked  a  great  step  in  the  rank  of  our  perform- 
ances. The  play  was  a  touching  and  tragic  story,  founded,  if  we 
ai-e  not  mistaken,  upon  a  tale  by  the  same  author,  Mr.  Wilkie 
Collins,  which  appeared  in  an  early  number  of  his  friend's  weekly 
journal.  Household  Words.  The  principal  characters  were  sus- 
tained by  Mr.  Dickens,  Mr.  Mark  Lemon,  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins, 
and  the  ladies  of  Mr.  Dickens's  family.  The  scenery  Avas  painted 
by  Clarkson  Stanfield,  and  comprised  a  drop-scene  representing 


EARLY  YEARS  17 

the  exterior  of  Eddystone  Lighthouse,  and  a  room  in  the  interior 
in  which  the  whole  action  of  the  drama  was  carried  on.  The 
prologue  was  written,  we  believe,  by  Mr.  Dickens,  and  we  can 
recall  as  if  it  were  yesterday  the  impressive  elocution  of  Mr, 
John  Forster  as  he  spoke  behind  the  scenes  the  lines  which 
follow : — 

*'  A  story  of  those  rocks  where  doomed  ships  come 
To  cast  their  wrecks  upon  the  steps  of  home : 
Where  solitary  men,  the  whole  year  through, 
The  wind  their  music,  and  the  brine  their  view, 
Teach  mariners  to  shun  the  fatal  light, — 
A  story  of  those  rocks  is  here  to-night : 
Eddystone  Lighthouse." 

Here  the  green  curtain  rose  and  discovered  Stanfield's  drop- 
scene,  the  Lighthouse,  its  lantern  illuminated  by  a  transparency. 
.  .  .  The  main  incident  of  the  plot — the  confession  of  a  murder 
by  the  old  sailor, 'Aaron  Gurnock,  under  pressure  of  impending 
death  from  starvation  (no  provisions  being  able  to  reach  the  light- 
house owing  to  a  continuance  of  bad  weather),  and  his  subsequent 
retraction  of  the  confession  when  supplies  unexpectedly  arrive — 
afforded  Mr.  Dickens  scope  for  a  piece  of  acting  of  great  power. 

'The  farce  of  Mr.  Nightingale  s  Dianj,  the  joint  production  of 
Dickens  and  Mark  Lemon,  wliich  followed  Mr.  Collins's  play  at 
Tavistock  House,  was  well  calculated  to  exhibit  the  versatility 
of  the  principal  actor.  Mr.  Dickens  played  one  Mr.  Gabblewig, 
in  which  character  he  assumed  four  or  five  different  disguises, 
changing  his  dress,  voice,  and  look  with  a  rapidity  and  complete- 
ness which  the  most  practised  "entertainer"  might  envy.  This 
whimsical  piece  of  extravagance  had  been  before  played  by  the 
same  actors  in  the  performances  for  the  benefit  of  the  Guild  of 
Literature  and  Art,  but  has  never  been  printed,  except  privately 
for  the  use  of  the  original  actors.  What  portions  were  contri- 
buted by  the  joint  authors  respectively  we  can  only  surmise ; 
but  there  were  certain  characters  and  speeches  which  bore  veiy 
clearly  stamped  upon  them  the  mark  of  their  authorship.  One 
of  the  characters  played  by  Mr.  Dickens  was  an  old  lady,  in  great 
trouble  and  perplexity  about  a  missing  child  ;  of  which  character 
(being  nameless  in  the  drama)  he  always  spoke,  when  he  had 
occasion  to  refer  to  her  off  the  stage,  as  Mrs.  Gamp,  some  of 
whose  speeches  were  as  well  worthy  of  preservation  for  droll 
extravagance  of  incongruity  as  the  best  of  her  famous  prototype 
in  Martin   Chuzzlewit,     In  addition  to  her  perplexity  about  the 

B 


18  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

missing  infant,  she  is  further  embarrassed  as  to  the  exact  surname 
of  Mr.  Nightingale,  whose  name  she  remembers  to  be  that  of  a 
bird,  but  cannot  always  refer  to  the  correct  species  of  that  order. 
A  quotation  we  make  from  memory  will  leave  no  doubt  as  to 
the  fertile  and  singular  fancy  from  whose  mint  it  came : — 

' "  No,  sir,  I  will  not  leave  the  house !  I  will  not  leave  the 
establishment  without  my  child,  my  .boy.  My  boy,  sir,  which  he 
were  his  mother's  hope  and  his  father's  pride,  and  no  one  as  I  am 
aweer  on's  joy.  Vich  the  name  as  was  giv'  to  this  blessedest 
of  infants  and  vorked  in  best  Vitechapel  mixed  upon  a  pin-cushion 
and  '  Save  the  mother '  likewise,  were  Abjalom,  after  his  own 
parential  father,  Mr.  Nightingale,  who  no  other  ways  than  by 
being  guv'  to  liquor,  lost  a  day's  vork  at  the  wheelwright  business, 
vich  it  was  but  limited,  Mr.  Skylark,  being  veels  of  donkey-chaises 
and  goats  ;  and  vun  vas  even  drawn  by  geese  for  a  wager,  and  came 
up  the  aisle  o'  the  parish  church  one  Sunday  arternoon  by  reason 
of  the  perwerseness  of  the  animals,  as  could  be  testified  by  Mr. 
Wix  the  beadle,  afore  he  died  of  drawing  on  Vellinton  boots  to 
which  he  was  not  accustomed,  after  an  'earty  meal  of  roast  beef 
and  a  pickled  walnut  to  which  he  were  too  parjial !  Yes,  Mr. 
Robin  Redbreast,  in  the  marble  fontin  of  that  theer  church  was 
he  baptized  Abjalom,  vich  never  can  be  unmade  or  undone,  I  am 
proud  to  say,  not  to  please  nor  give  offence  to  no  one,  nohows  and 
noveres,  sir,  .  .  .  Ah  !  '  affliction  sore  long  time  Maria  Nightingale 
bore ;  physicians  was  in  vain  ' — not  that  I  am  aweer  she  had  any 
one  in  particular,  sir,  excepting  one,  vhich  she  tore  his  hair  by 
handfuls  out  in  consequence  of  disagreements  relative  to  her 
complaint ;  and  dead  she  is  and  will  be,  as  the  hosts  of  the 
Egyptian  fairies ;  and  this  I  shall  prove,  directly  minute,  on  the 
evingdence  of  my  brother  the  sexton,  whom  I  shall  here  produce, 
to  your  confusion,  young  person,  in  the  twinkling  of  a  star  or 
humin  eye  !  " 

'Scarcely  had  the  old  woman  quitted  the  stage  when  Mr. 
Dickens  reappeared  as  "my  brother  the  sexton,"  a  very  old 
gentleman  indeed,  with  a  quavery  voice  and  self-satisfied  smile 
(pleasantly  suggesting  how  inimitable  must  have  been  the  same 
actor's  manner  as  Justice  Shallow),  and  afflicted  with  a  "hardness 
of  hearing  "  which  almost  baffled  the  efforts  of  his  interrogators 
to  obtain  from  him  the  desired  information  as  to  the  certificate  of 
Mrs.  Nightingale's  decease.  "  It 's  no  use  your  whispering  to  me, 
sir,"  was  the  gentle  remonstrance  which  the  first  loud  shout  in  his 
ear  elicited ;  and  on  the  question  being  put  whether  "  he  had 


EARLY  YEARS  19 

ever  buried "  —  he  at  once  interrupted  to  reply  that  he  had 
brewed;  and  that  he  and  his  old  woman — "my  old  woman  was 
a  Kentish  woman,  gentlemen  ;  one  year^  sir,  we  brewed  some  of 
the  strongest  ale  that  ever  you  drank,  sir ;  they  used  to  call  it 
down  in  our  part  of  the  country  (in  allusion,  you  understand,  to 
its  great  strength,  gentlemen)  'Samson  with  his  hair  on.'  .  .  . 
A  third  character  in  the  farce,  sustained  by  Dickens,  was  that  of 
a  malade  hnaginnire,  for  the  time  being  under  treatment  by  a  new 
specific,  "mustard  and  milk,"  the  merits  of  which  he  could  not 
highly  enough  extol,  but  which,  nevertheless,  was  not  so  soothing 
in  its  effects  but  that  the  patient  gave  every  minute  a  loud  shriek 
— explaining  apologetically,  "That's  the  mustard!"  followed 
immediately  by  a  still  louder  one,  "That 's  the  milk  !  "  We  are 
afraid  to  say  in  how  many  other  disguises  our  manager  appeared, 
but  there  was  certainly  one  othei-,  a  footman  or  waiter,  in  which 
character  the  actor  gave  us  a  most  amusing  caricature  of  the 
manner  of  one  of  his  own  servants ;  and  we  remember  with  what 
glee,  one  night  at  supper  after  rehearsal,  Dickens  learned  that 
the  man  in  question  had  been  heard  imitating  his  master  in 
the  part  for  the  amusement  of  his  fellow-servants,  in  utter 
ignorance  that  he  himself  had  sat  in  the  first  instance  for  the 
portrait.' 

Meanwhile,  amid  all  this  social  stir,  Alfred  was  maturing 
and  quickening  his  pace  towards  manhood.  Charles  Dickens 
and  Frederick  Maurice  sound  incongruous  names  to  couple,  yet 
both  played  an  equal  part  in  his  existence.  For  Dickens  was 
the  other  great  influence  which  at  this,  the  most  impression- 
able moment,  more  or  less  formed  Alfred's  life  and,  to  some 
extent,  his  career.  And  this  is  no  chance  effect  of  his  fortunate 
contact  with  the  two  men,  it  springs  from  a  deeper  cause. 
For  they  represent,  as  it  were,  his  dual  nature,  the  two 
distinct  sides  of  his  character  which  he  always  kept  strictly 
apart ;  on  the  one  hand  the  sober  and  spiritual,  on  the  other 
the  humorous  and  dramatic.  In  most  complex  persons  the 
varied  elements  are  so  fused  that  the  conflicting  threads  in 
the  woof  are  almost  indistinguishable.  In  his  case  there  was 
never  any  fusion ;  there  was,  instead,  a  clear-cut  contrast,  and 
his  differing  tendencies  ran  alongside  of  each  other  on  parallel 
roads  to  the  end.     Dickens,  as  we  have  said,  defined  and  gave 


20  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

voice  to  his  tastes ;  Maurice,  whose  teaching  took  even 
stronger  hold  upon  him,  satisfied  his  spiritual  instincts  and 
his  great  need  of  seriousness;  and,  early  crystallising  his 
beliefs,  probably  turned  his  thoughts  towards  the  possibility 
of  taking  orders.  The  counsels  of  the  elder  Miss  King,  whose 
advice  weighed  considerably  with  him,  also  drew  him  this 
way.  But  the  idea  came  gradually  ;  as  yet  it  had  taken 
no  shape,  or  assumed  any  permanent  hold,  and  other  plans 
intervened. 

Many  causes,  public  and  private,  made  Maurice  about 
this  time  the  most  prominent  person  in  his  thoughts.  When 
Alfred  was  sixteen,  he  left  Mr.  King's  school  and  proceeded 
to  King's  College,  London,  where  Maurice  was  at  that  time 
Professor  of  Divinity  and  of  English  Literature.  It  was  just 
then,  in  the  year  1853,  that  his  volume  of  Theological  Essays 
appeared.  What  happened  thereupon  will  be  remembered : 
how  the  Council  of  King's  College  condemned  certain 
passages  in  the  book  concerning  a  future  life  and  eternal 
punishment  as  heterodox  and  harmful,  and  on  that  charge 
dismissed  Maurice  from  his  professorial  chair.  Alfred 
Ainger's  boyish  wrath  knew  no  bounds  at  this  catastrophe 
to  the  College  and  to  the  master  who  inspired  its  students — 
whose  only  crime  had  been  to  rob  religion  of  its  terrors  and 
make  God  more  accessible — the  man  whom  he  regarded  as  the 
revelation  of  true  Christianity.  Miss  King  still  remembers 
how  he  looked  as  he  came  into  her  room  with  the  first  news 
of  the  verdict,  all  his  indignation  fresh  upon  him ;  and  how, 
under  the  pressure,  as  it  were,  of  his  anger,  he  suddenly 
broke  into  a  lightning-flash  of  verse.  He  was  strong  in  his 
defence  and  in  later  years  he  formulated  it. 

'  It  is/  he  wrote  long  after, '  a  remark  of  Maurice's  own  (I  forget 
where)  that  the  man  who  is  most  careful  about  the  precise  and 
accurate  meaning  of  the  words  he  uses  is  sure  to  be  accused  by 
those  who  do  not  understand  him  of  juggling  with  them.  This 
has  been  his  own  fate.  Because  he  went  back  to  the  fountain- 
head  of  Christian  doctrine  for  the  primary  meaning  of  life,  death, 
eternal,  sin,  miracle,  and  other  apparently  simple,  and  really  all 
but  unfathomable  words,  he  was  supposed  by  those  who  were 


EARLY  YEARS  21 

repelled  by  his  method  to  be  using  them  in  an  arbitrary  sense  of 
his  own,  invented  by  him  to  justify  some  foregone  conclusion.  .  .  . 
After  all,  the  key  to  understanding  the  writings  of  Maurice  is  one  of 
a  moral  rather  than  intellectual  kind.  It  is  an  appreciation  of,  and 
sympathy  with,  his  spiritual  temper  which  soon  finds  his  language 
clear  and  his  method  reasonable.  The  often-quoted  lines  of  his 
favourite  Wordsworth  are  as  ajiplicable  to  him  as  to  the  imaginary 
character  of  whom  they  were  written — that  we  must  love  him,  ere 
to  us  he  will  seem  worthy  of  our  love.  The  old  editors  of 
Shakespeare  had  perhaps  the  same  vague  idea  of  which  was 
cause  and  which  was  effect^  when  they  used  language  about  their 
great  dramatist  which  I  venture  here  to  apply  to  Frederick 
Maurice  :  "  If  you  do  not  like  him,  you  are  in  some  manifest 
danger  not  to  understand  him.  .   .  .'" 

In  these  College  days,  we  see  Alfred  Ainger  very  much 
as  he  was  to  be,  his  gifts  full-grown,  his  tastes  and  qualities 
almost  developed.  And  that  faculty  for  friendship  which 
was  to  mean  so  much  to  him  now  began  to  take  a  prominent 
part  in  his  life.  At  King's  College  he  found  two,  at  least, 
of  his  lifelong  friends,  and  another  whose  own  death  in  middle 
life  alone  cut  off  the  intercourse  between  them.  This  was 
William  Elderton,  already  his  schoolmate  at  Mr.  King's,  a 
serious-minded,  thoughtful  lad  and  the  confidant  of  Alfred's 
spiritual  reflections,  who  became  his  chief  correspondent  when 
Ainger  left  town  for  Cambridge.  Of  the  other  two,  one  was 
Richard  C.  Browne,  his  comrade-at-arms  in  letters  and  his 
literary  counsellor,  a  position  which  he  always  retained 
although  he  lived  away  from  London ;  and  the  last,  not  the 
least,  was  Horace  Smith,  the  dear  familiar  companion,  in- 
separably linked  to  Alfred,  first  here,  then  at  the  University, 
later  still  at  the  Temple,  where  his  name  is  known  and  loved 
in  many  capacities — whether  as  Bencher  or  '  Beak ' — poet  or 
writer  of  essays. 

'  I  first/  he  writes, '  became  acquainted  with  Alfred  Ainger  when 
we  met  at  King's  College,  London.  We  were  of  the  same  year  in 
College,  and  of  the  same  age  within  a  month  or  two.  I  remember 
that,  at  first,  before  I  knew  his  name,  I  called  him  "  the  whistling 
boy."  He  used  to  perch  upon  a  desk  in  one  of  the  class-rooms, 
always  in  some  impossibly  contorted  attitude,  generally  whistling  a 


22  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

sonata  of  Beethoven^  or  the  "  Carnival  of  Venice  "  with  variations, 
perhaps  humming  the  same  in  a  low,  sweet,  tenor  voice.  He  was 
always  full  of  fun,  even  of  some  mischief,  but  he  had  no  physical 
strength  for  sports  of  any  kind ;  and  so  fragile  was  he  in  appear- 
ance that  people  would  wonder  if  he  could  live  through  the 
year.  During  the  three  years  we  were  together  at  King's  College, 
I  don't  think  we  did  much  woi-k,  except  in  the  English  Literature 
class,  where  we  were  graciously  pleased  to  write  essays  for 
Professor  Brewer,  whom  we  enthusiastically  admired ;  and  we 
were  frequently  called  upon  to  read  our  essays  out  loud  to  the 
class.' 

But  if  he  was  not  garnering  many  data,  he  was  certainly 
gathering  experience.  '  In  the  lecture-room,'  writes  another 
King"'s  Collegian,  '  he  was  rather  an  observer  than  a  learner. 
The  proceedings  were  to  him  in  the  nature  of  a  spectacle, 
and  the  mirth  they  sometimes  afforded  him  was  but  too 
infectious.'  Sometimes  it  was  a  joke,  sometimes  an  imper- 
sonation, sometimes  a  verse  dashed  off,  that  made  a  whole 
class  helpless  with  merriment.  And  his  fun,  even  his  mimicry, 
never  offended  anybody.  Now  he  would  '  elicit  shrieks  of 
laughter  by  his  delicately  accented  reproduction  of  the  way 
in  which  a  student,  entering  the  College  Hall  with  books 
under  his  arm,  was  wont  to  look  up  at  the  clock — a  slighter 
thing  could  not  be — but  it  was  irresistible,  and  the  original 
enjoyed  it  as  much  as  any  one.'  Now  again  he  would  break 
into   a   skit   on    some    event   of  the    moment — such   as   was 

suggested  by  seeing  '  Mr. and  Mr. engaged  in  the 

irrelevant  pastime  of  Tit-tat-to  during  a  lecture.'  Ainger 
instantly  wrote  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  scrawled  over  with 
mathematical  calculations : — 

'  Life  is  a  game  at  Tit-tat-to 

With  all  its  gains  and  losses — 
But  not  to  all  men  :  some  I  know 
Ne'er  meet  with  aught  but  crosses. 

I  know  the  wise  may  toil  in  vain. 

And  when  their  labour's  past 
May  profit  nothing  by  their  pain  ; 

Tom  Fool  gets  all  at  last.' 

But  directly  the   theme   of  the  academic  lecturer  had   any 


EARLY  YEARS  23 

connection  with  Literature,  Alfred  ceased  to  be  an  improvisor, 
and  became  a  concentrated  listener.  It  was  characteristic 
of  him  that  he  only  developed  upon  the  lines  he  had  chosen 
from  the  first,  and  that  he  made  no  effort  to  branch  out  into 
by-paths  of  learning.  To  literature  he  gave  most  of  his 
time,  both  when  he  worked  and  when  he  played.  His  actual 
achievements  were  not  so  remarkable  in  this  direction  as  was 
the  maturity  of  his  taste.  Charles  Lamb  he  discovered  for 
himself,  and  early  made  himself  acquainted  with  every  corner 
associated  with  EUa.  Crabbe  he  already  knew  and  loved, 
a  choice  even  more  unexpected  in  youth.  Contemporary 
writers — Kingsley,  Ruskin,  Thackeray,  Dickens — naturally 
absorbed  him,  and  there  now  came  into  his  ken  the  poet  who 
was  to  mean  most  to  him,  the  poetic  influence  which  certainly 
most  affected  him.  It  was  in  the  early  fifties  that  he  came 
across  In  Memoriam,  and  felt  he  had  discovered  a  world.  He 
and  his  friend,  Richard  Browne,  together  with  two  others, 
would  take  the  book  out  on  spring  afternoons  to  the  terrace 
of  Somerset  House  and  read  it  together  there,  'sitting  by 
the  stone  lions  and  looking  across  the  river  to  the  Surrey 
hills.'  And  after  that  some  volume  of  Tennyson's  was  never 
far  from  Alfred's  hand. 

The  other  pursuit  that  absorbed  him  in  his  leisure  moments 
was  music.  Music-haunted  he  had  been  since  his  birth.  From 
first  to  last  beautiful  music  moved  him  to  a  kind  of  ecstasy; 
he  lived  as  if  on  some  Prospero's  island,  surrounded  by  '  music 
in  the  air,'  This  love,  which  was  apart  from  performance, 
would  always  be  surprising  in  a  schoolboy  and  was  doubly  so 
in  those  early  Victorian  days,  when  it  was  anything  but 
fashionable  for  men  to  be  musical  and  it  required  something 
like  courage  for  a  lad  to  proclaim  himself  exceptional. 
Alfred  found  two  or  three  companions  in  this  taste  and  they 
used  to  resort  together  to  Fentum's,  a  music- warehouse  in  the 
Strand,  there  to  play  and  to  sing,  trying  over  the  music 
they  cared  for,  Mendelssohn  and  Schubert  and  Schumann,  to 
their  heart's  content.  Alfred  was  usually  a  listener  on  these 
occasions  and  here  laid  the  firm  foundation  of  that  well- 
stored  memory  which  stood  him  in  good  stead  through  later 


24  LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

years.  A  gift  for  the  piano,  however,  was  his  by  nature — 
a  gift  which  he  only  used  for  light  purposes.  He  soon  was 
able  to  accompany  the  songs  and  sketches  of  his  own  which 
he  now  began  to  perform.  They  were  sketches  in  the  manner 
of  Corney  Grain,  or  of  his  greater  predecessor,  John  Parry, 
whose  musical  feats  delighted  Mendelssohn.  One  of  these 
entertainments  of  Ainger's,  given  in  youthful  days,  is  memor- 
able.    It  is  one  of  the  audience  who  describes  it  ^ : — 

'  The  Rev.  Dr.  Camming,  of  Crown  Court,  was  the  interpreter 
of  prophecy  most  generally  acceptable  to  persons  wholly  in- 
competent to  deal  with  the  subject.  He  had,  therefore,  a  very 
numerous  following.  He  was  given  to  predicting  the  end  of  the 
world  at  some  date  near  at  hand.  The  date  was,  from  time  to 
time,  unavoidably  postponed,  and  it  was  unkindly  remarked  that 
the  Doctor  had  his  stock  of  coal  replenished  as  usual.  The 
approach  of  the  Great  Tribulation  had  been  announced  in  his  work 
bearing  that  title.  In  one  of  A.  A.'s  chronicle  songs,  the  author 
was  commemorated  as  : — 

''the  eminent  Low-Church  Divine 
Who  is  putting  us  up  to  a  proximate  sign. 
And  tells  us,  without  any  ha-ing  or  hum-ming, 
What  a  very  great  Affliction  is — coming!" 

'  One  evening,  the  singer  had  passed  to  the  next  verse  and  was 
looking  at  his  audience,  when  into  the  brighter  light  around  the 
piano  a  figui'e  emerged  from  the  comparative  gloom.  It  was  the 
Doctor,  who  took  the  matter  sensibly  and  good-humouredly.' 

Wherever  Ainger  went  his  songs  and  improvisings  seem 
to  have  left  an  echo.  He  and  Horace  Smith,  who  lived  in 
Bayswater,  always  started  on  their  homeward  walk  together, 
and  Alfred  would  be  not  infrequently  persuaded  to  turn  his 
steps  away  from  St.  John's  Wood  and  return  to  his  friend's 
house.  '  He  was  as  full  of  frolic,  fun  and  noise,'  as  the 
'  Country  Fair '  of  which  he  used  to  sing.  In  these  days  his 
high  spirits  simply  bubbled  up  incessantly,  although  he 
suffered  from  relapses  at  times,  possibly  from  sheer  exhaustion. 
He  had  frequent  headaches  and  sickness.  His  power  of 
throwing  off  these  attacks  and  becoming  wildly  excited  and 

^  Mr.  R.  C.  Browne. 


V 


\, 


Alfred  Aingkr  at  eighteen  years  of  age. 

/•"ro;«  «  /'hotos:raph  by  Miss  Johnston. 


EART.Y  YEARS  25 

amusing  in  a  moment,  was  astonishing.  Everybody  who 
came  into  contact  with  him  spoilt  him  and  he  was  like  a 
spoilt  child.  If  in  a  mixed  company  one  or  two  persons  were 
not  quite  to  his  taste,  he  would  retire  into  himself  in  com- 
plete silence;  but  as  soon  as  these  one  or  two  persons  left 
the  room,  he  would  jump  up,  cut  most  fantastic  capers  and 
shout  '  owio  let  us  have  some  fun.' 

In  his  failings,  as  in  his  gifts,  the  boy  Avas  father  to  the  man. 
This  wayward  moodiness  of  his,  which  those  who  loved  him 
later  knew  so  well,  acted  from  the  first  like  a  spell  which  he 
himself  seemed  powerless  to  break.  Even  as  a  boy  at  school 
his  silences  were  alarming  and  his  dislikes  were  apparently 
unaccountable,  dependent  on  some  habit,  some  gesture,  or 
chance  word  that  offended  his  fastidious  taste ;  and  if  he  once 
took  objection  to  a  person  he  did  not  get  over  it — his  feeling 
crystallised  into  prejudice.  Never,  in  these  early  days,  even 
while  he  was  at  the  Kings',  could  he  be  brought  to  like  the 
husbands  who  carried  off  his  friends,  and  he  showed  an  almost 
feminine  caprice  in  his  attitude  towards  them. 

There  was  an  element  of  freakishness  about  him  which 
always  made  him  unique,  but  which,  as  the  years  went  on, 
became  softened  and  mellowed  by  the  sympathies  which  grew 
with  experience  and  by  the  judgment  which  they  brought 
him.  His  whims,  however,  did  not  mar  his  lovableness, 
or  the  sunny  sweetness  of  his  nature.  The  qualities  for 
which  he  was  spoilt  were  just  those  that  were  beyond  spoiling. 

The  finest  memorial  and  the  most  impressive  that  he  left 
behind  him  at  King's  College  was  one  which  was  droller  than 
his  play  and  more  truly  educational  than  any  academic  work. 
He  was,  we  have  said,  music-haunted ;  he  was  Shakspeare- 
haunted  too.  He  was  a  deep  and  constant  reader  of  the  poet, 
helped,  where  his  ignorance  of  life  limited  him,  by  the  actor's 
insight  and  an  acute  literary  perception.  His  Shakespeare 
readings  were  never  forgotten  by  his  contemporaries,  and  one 
who  heard  them  has  recorded  the  effect  they  produced.^ 

'In  1855,  the  King's  College  Shakespearian  Society  was 
founded.     He  was  its  first  President.     The  readings  began  with 

1  Mr.  R.  C.  Browne. 


26  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

Romeo  and  Juliet  (Nov.  25th).  He  filled  the  parts  of  Gregory 
and  the  Nurse,  and  the  rendering  of  the  latter  was  ideal.  On 
December  5th  the  Society  presented  As  You  Like  It,  with  A.  A.  as 
Touchstone,  in  the  manner  of  Compton,  then  the  accepted  repre- 
sentative of  the  "  fool  i'  the  forest."  But  it  was  in  Twelflh  Night 
that  he  showed  the  full  power  of  his  interpretation.  Sir  Andrew 
Aguecheek  was  "  after  "  no  one  except  Shakespeare,  out  of  whose 
page  he  sprang  alive.  And  his  dealing  with  this  character  was 
remarkable  in  another  respect.  Excellent  as  his  reading  always 
was,  its  effect  was  not  unfrequently  a  little  impaired  by  his 
amiable  desire  immediately  to  share  his  own  exuberant  delight 
therein  with  his  hearers.  The  indications  of  this  desire  were  apt 
to  interfere  with  its  realisation.  They  imparted  to  the  impression 
produced  a  certain  duplexity,  which  was  7iot  stereoscopic.  You 
would  gladly  have  deferred  your  participation  in  his  pleasure  in 
the  interests  of  his  success.  This  was  notably  the  case  with  his 
Dogberry,  while  he  was  affording  you  rapturous  glimpses  of  the 
depths  of  the  learned  constable's  stupidity.  There  came  in  a 
glance,  or  even  in  a  tone,  the  reader's  ecstatic,  triumphant 
question:  "Are  they  not  abysmal  .> "  They  were;  but  the 
question  broke  the  charm  of  the  dramatic  situation. 

Not  so  with  his  Sir  Andrew.  There  A.  A.  was  totm  in  illo,  and 
what  admirable  fooling  it  was  !  what  a  wealth  of  suffffestion ! 
Your  mind's  eye  saw  the  loose-hung,  limp,  shambling  figure. 
You  noted  the  almost  pathetic  attempts  at  lively  repartee ;  the 
haunting  suspicion  that  they  missed  fire ;  the  feeble  rallying  to 
the  attitude  of  what  was  almost,  but  not  quite,  conceit ;  the 
occasional  gleams  of  self-knowledge,  all  unavailing  for  guidance 
or  encouragement,  having  only  the  power  to  depress  that  weakly 
body  and  flickering  mind  ;  all  this,  and  all  the  so  much  more  in 
the  ''foolish  knight,"  lived  and  moved  before  you,  stirring  you  to 
laughter — and  to  pity. 

'For  in  all  A.  A.'s  renderings,  there  was  (once  more  to  pervert 
the  trite  quotation)  that  "  touch  of  nature"  that  "makes  the  whole 
world  kin."  The  images  presented  to  your  mental  view  were  all 
from  "^ewi/e  Shakespeare"  cut — as  an  engraver  copies  from  an 
artist.  Stephano  might  be  brutal ;  but  he  was  loyal  to  the  "  poor 
monster."  Dr.  Caius  might  be  fussy  and  tiresome ;  but  you  felt 
he  was  an  alien,  whose  learning  and  common  sense  were  not  dis- 
cerned by  his  Windsor  neighbours  through  his  broken  English, 
though  the  ridicule  of  his  wooing  might  be  borne  with  for  the 
sake  of  a  substantial  jointure.     Shylock's  appeal  to  the  common 


EARLY  YEAKS  27 

humanity  was  driven  home,  in  spite  of  a  certain  lack  of  physical 
force  in  its  delivery.  This  sympathy  he  allowed  to  put  him  at 
some  disadvantage  in  Jaques,  whose  inherent  rascality  he  appre- 
ciated, but  did  not  fully  express.  .  .  .  Falconbridge  again,  was,  for 
him,  scarcely  a  success.  He  was  not  convincing  when  he  simu- 
lated the  robustness  of  the  sturdy  Plantagenet.  Nor  can  I  recall 
anything  salient  in  his  Cassius,' 

Young  Ainger's  gifts  as  actor  and  interpreter  were  more 
striking  than  his  literary  achievements.  His  writing  did  not 
come  so  spontaneously,  nor  was  it  ever  an  easy  matter  to  him. 
His  music,  indeed  all  his  other  faculties,  showed  a  greater 
facility.  And  little  of  his  writing  is  left  from  these  his  early 
years,  only  what  may  be  found  in  a  small  periodical.  Our 
Paper^  printed  for  private  circulation  in  1855,  to  help  the 
Royal  Patriotic  Fund,  a  charity  destined  for  those  who  had 
suffered  by  the  Crimean  War.  There  are  happy  phrases  in  his 
contributions — paragraphs,  too,  worth  the  quoting,  if  only  to 
show  the  influence  that  Dickens  had  upon  him. 

Here,  for  instance,  is  his  skit  on  a  '  correspondence  page '  in 
his  essay  on  '  Penny  Literature,'  which,  unlike  so  many  jokes, 
has  as  much  point  now  as  then. 

'  An  ejiquirifig  mind.  Yorkshire  is  a  large  county  in  the  North  of 
England. 

Etymologist,  The  i  in  China  is  long. 

Augusta  Ayin  is  thanked  for  her  beautiful  and  touching  poem, 
which  will  appear  in  our  next.  Her  simile,  "like  rain-drops 
pattering  upon  angel's  wings,"  is  singularly  happy.  She  should, 
however,  pay  greater  attention  to  orthography.   .  .  . 

Chesterfield.  Your  friend  is  unintentionally  deceiving  you.  It  is 
not  etiquette  to  ask  more  than  three  times  for  soup. 

Antiquarian.  Milton's  father  was  not  a  potato-salesman. 

Constance  B.  Slap  his  face. 

A  Curate.  Tell  her  business  requires  you  at  Hackney. 

Received.  P,Q.,  Plato,  Berenice,  Tomkins,' 

Or  here  is  a  picture  of  a  rising  suburb  : 

*  There  are  many,  not  tied  to  London  by  business,  who  like  to 
grasp  the  country  without  letting  go  the  town,  ,  ,  ,  Ours  is  a 
new  neighbourhood,  one  of  the  growing  offshoots  of  the  growing 
metropolis.    .   .    .    Art  is   contemplating   further   encroachments 


28  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

upon  Nature,  Slices  of  turf  are  already  cut  from  the  surface, 
rolled  up  like  jam  puddings,  and  piled  in  heaps.  .  .  .  New  roads 
are  permeating  in  all  directions,  apparently  made  of  dust-bins, 
for  a  substratum  of  oyster-shells  and  decayed  shoes  is  plainly 
visible.  An  adventurous  young  lark  sometinaes  comes  and  sings 
over  the  doomed  land,  but  it  quickly  scents  the  scent  of  building, 
and  flies  away  countryward.' 

In  another  paper,  A  Feio  Musical  Friends,  we  can  trace  the 
future  friend  of  du  Maurier  as  well  as  the  lover  of  Dickens. 
Mrs.  Spencer  Tompkins, '  who  herself  sings  and  plays  remark- 
ably well,"*  asks  the  writer  to  a  little  musical  party,  and  he 
accepts  her  invitation. 

'  The  torture  of  dress '  (he  writes,  and  the  words  sound  strange 
from  a  person  of  eighteen)  '  is  not  so  cruel  in  these  cases  as  on 
those  other  occasions,  when  we  leave  home  at  the  time  we  ought 
to  be  going  to  bed,  and  return  just  in  time  for  breakfast;  but 
every  earthly  pleasure  has  its  alloy.  And  even  music  requires  its 
dress-boots.   .  .   . 

'.  .  .  It  was  in  the  course  of  this  delightful  evening,  that  we 
discovered  that  the  company  present  we  had  assuredly  met  before. 
It  is  true  we  remembered  none  of  the  faces,  but  with  the  different 
types  of  humanity  present  we  were  strangely  familiar ;  and  then 
it  struck  us  for  the  first  time,  that  these  were  but  representatives 
of  the  different  classes  of  musical  people,  and  that  others  perhaps 
recognised  them  as  well  as  ourselves.  If,  in  describing  any  one  of 
the  guests  we  met  at  Mrs.  Spencer  Tompkins's,  the  reader  shall 
exclaim,  "  Dear  me  !  how  like — ,"  our  end  will  be  attained. 

'  As  we  enter  the  room,  most  of  the  company  have  arrived.  A 
knot  of  young  ladies  is  congregated  before  the  piano,  engaged  in 
a  little  pleasant  contention  as  to  who  shall  open  the  evening. 
At  length  a  bolder  spirit  than  the  rest  volunteers  to  take  part 
in  a  duet  if  she  can  find  a  fellow-sufferer  to  join  her.  This  is 
soon  forthcoming,  and  the  soiree  is  inaugurated  by  a  grand  Pot- 
pourri from  the  "  Huguenots."  The  duet  is  performed  amid  a 
din  of  conversation,  which  the  audience  kindly  interrupt  at  the 
conclusion  to  applaud.  An  interval  of  ten  minutes  elapses. 
Then  do  we  not  know  the  diffident  young  lady,  with  ringlets, 
who  requires  half  an  hour's  persuasion  to  favour  the  company — 
not  always  on  the  plea  that  she  has  a  cold,  which  superstition 
seems  to  be  sinking  before  the  stride  of  civilisation,  but  for 
the  avowed  reason  that  she  "would  rather   not,  dear,  please." 


EARLY  YEARS  29 

However^  this  seldom  avails  her,  and  does  not  in  the  present 
instance,  for  she  is  obliged  to  yield,  and  remarks  that  she  has 
left  her  music  downstairs.  An  assiduous  young  gentleman  immedi- 
ately leaves  the  room  in  search  of  it,  and  returns  in  triumph  with 
an  implement  resembling  a  claret-coloured  rolling-pin.  The 
diffident  young  lady,  referring  to  the  rolling-pin,  which  proved  to 
be  a  ease  of  music,  selects  a  song,  and  sitting  down  to  the  piano, 
commences  "Childhood's  Bowers"  (composed  and  respectfully 
dedicated  to  the  pupils  of  Mangnall  House  Academy,  by  Mr. 
Savage  Brest,  R.A.M.)  The  melody  of  this  song,  which  was 
announced  by  the  public  press,  the  day  after  its  first  appearance, 
as  "sure  to  become  a  favourite,"  is  not  soul-stirring,  and  the  words 
are  inaudible ;  but  this  last  is  perhaps  all  for  the  best.  The 
diffident  young  lady  begins  in  a  low  and  tremulous  voice,  but 
encouraged  by  the  approbation  which  follows  the  first  stanza,  she 
gains  confidence,  and  brings  the  lyric  to  conclusion  with  a  shake 
that  makes  the  stoutest  man  change  colour.' 

It  does  not  appear  that  Ainger  ever  thought  of  writing  as  a 
calling.  The  stage  about  this  period,  and  for  a  short  time 
onwards,  was  a  powerful  attraction  to  him ;  but  though  he 
fitfully  considered  it  as  a  possible  career,  his  delicate  health 
soon  compelled  him  to  abandon  any  such  notion ;  and  when, 
as  was  soon  to  happen,  he  went  to  the  University,  it  was  the 
Law  that  occupied  his  more  serious  thoughts.  The  idea  of 
the  Church  had  for  the  moment  receded,  possibly  for  family 
reasons,  probably  because  of  the  vagueness  as  to  a  profession 
felt  by  most  young  men  when  'the  world  is  all  before  them 
where  to  choose.'  It  was  not  that  his  mind  was  less  serious 
than  before — so  much  we  may  learn  from  a  letter  that  he 
wrote  to  his  friend,  Horace  Smith,  not  long  before  he  left 
King's  College. 

'  You  don't  know,  my  dear  fellow,'  he  writes,  '  how  glad  I  am 
to  find  you  like  Kingsley  so  well.  I  felt  sure  you  Avould  if  you 
read  him,  but  I  doubted  whether  you  would  bring  yourself  to 
make  a  beginning.  I  feel  quite  convinced  myself  that  both  these 
writers,  Kingsley  and  Maurice,  are  earnest  and  sincere  in  their 
endeavour  to  draw  people  to  the  Spirit  and  the  truth — feeling 
what  indeed  is  most  manifest,  that  the  English  Church  is  clinging 
desperately  to  the  letter — and  trusting  to  the  bruised  reed  of 
forms  and  conventionalities.     Maurice  says  he  is  convinced  that 


30  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

a  theology  which  does  not  coiTCspond  to  the  deepest  feelings 
of  our  hearts  is  not  a  true  theology,  and  I  am  sure  he  is  right. 
People  say  that  all  speculation  and  inquiry  are  futile,  nay  impious 
— that  we  are  commanded  to  receive  the  truths  of  the  Bible  on 
faith.  So  we  are ;  and  have  reason  to  be  deeply  grateful  that 
that  command  was  given  to  us.  Since  those  words,  from  the  lips 
of  God  himself,  "  He  that  believeth  on  Me,  though  he  were  dead, 
yet  shall  he  live,"  changed  the  whole  current  of  the  world's 
thoughts,  and  gave  to  man  that  hope  which,  thank  God,  is  his  life 
indeed^  now  and  for  ever — nothing  but  faith  ever  quickened  that 
command  in  a  man's  heart.  But  there  is  nothing  in  the  Bible  that 
forbids  man  to  increase  his  knowledge  of  his  Father  in  heaven.' 

These  words,  written  when  he  was  barely  eighteen,  might 
stand  for  a  complete  summary  of  his  religious  views  on  the 
last  day  of  his  life.  In  thought  he  matured  early,  but  he  did 
not  grow  much  afterwards. 

Changes  were  coming  upon  him  and  stern  realities.  In 
1854  Mr.  King  died  suddenly — a  personal  shock  and  sorrow, 
doubled  by  his  sympathy  with  the  daughters  of  his  old  friend 
and  master.  His  faithful  heart  clung  to  them,  and  he  was 
constantly  with  them,  especially  with  his  old  companion. 

'My  dear  Gertrude'  (he  wrote  to  her,  just  before  he  left 
King's  College), — '  ihe  twenty-sixth  of  March  is  to  me  a  day  of 
peculiar  interest.  In  the  first  place  it  is  the  birthday  of  a  very 
dear  friend  of  mine,  and  in  the  next  place  it  is  the  anniversary 
of  my  first  having  the  pleasure  of  her  acquaintance.  For  these 
two  reasons,  then,  I  send  out  to  our  milkman's  and  mark  this 
day  with  the  whitest  of  white  chalk. 

'  Let  me  then  first  wish  you  many,  many  happy  returns  of  this 
auspicious  day.  The  phrase  is  hackneyed,  but  it  seems  to  me  to 
include  every  good  wish,  and  I  therefore  hope  you  will  accept 
it  in  its  most  comprehensive  sense. 

*  Six  years  ago,  this  day,  I  came  as  a  stranger,  and  you  took  me 
in.  For  three  years  and  three  months  I  was  constantly  with  you, 
and  I  do  not  believe  that  we  were  ever  at  variance  for  more  than 
two  minutes  at  a  time.  It  seems  but  yesterday  that  we,  colla- 
borateurs,  like  Liddell  and  Scott,  or  Brady  and  Tate,  elucidated 
a  chorus  of  ^schylus,  or  rendered  into  elegant  Latin  such  sen- 
tences as  "The  pious  Queen  devours  the  noble  Centurion,"  or 


EARLY  YEARS  31 

"  Balbus  denied  that  he  swallowed  the  sugar-tongs."  .  .  .  Will 
you  oblige  me  by  accepting  the  accompanying  slightest  of  slight 
tokens  of  my  friendship  and  esteem  and  omnia  verba  amandi, 
aestimandi,  diligendi,  approbandi — vide  Ainger's  Latin  Primer.^ 

He  was  in  a  mood  for  reviewing  the  past.  Events  were  also 
happening  in  his  family  circle  which  made  him  feel  that  life 
was  moving  on.  In  the  same  year  that  Mr.  King  died,  his 
sister  Adeline  was  married  to  Dr.  Roscow  and  went  to  live 
away  in  Folkestone,  a  fact  which  altered  home  for  her 
brother.  His  own  London  life  was  soon  to  close  for  a  time 
— the  first  chapter  was  finished.  '  At  the  beginning  of  Easter 
term  (1856),  A.  A.  was  absent,'  writes  Mr.  Browne,  '  I  think 
from  some  slight  illness.  We  had  resumed — or  were  about  to 
resume — our  readings  of  In  Memoriam,  when  on  April  9th  the 
sharp  news  fell  on  us  that  the  poem  must  be  finished  without 
him.  He  was  leaving  King's  College  for  Cambridge  earlier 
than  we — or  possibly  he — expected.  I  wrote  to  him  in  some 
distress.     He  replied  in  a  letter  now  before  me : — 

'  Your  letter  and  L's  have  made  this  a  very  sad  morning  to  me ; 
and  hke  the  girl  in  the  Arabian  tale,  I  hear  voices  continually 
calling  to  me  to  look  back,  but  with  this  difference  that,  when  I 
do,  I  am  very  far  from  being  turned  into  stone.' 

Other  voices,  voices  of  youth,  were  urging  him  to  look 
forward. 


CHAPTER    II 

CAMBRIDGE 

'  He  is  a  born  man  of  the  world.**  When  Alfred  Ainger  was 
twenty-three,  this  was  an  old  friend's  verdict  on  him.  It  was 
unexpected,  but  it  was  true.  The  ease  and  the  grace,  some- 
times gay,  sometimes  formal,  with  which  he  moved  among 
many  sorts  of  men,  his  acute  perception  of  their  motives  and 
manners,  his  skill  in  dealing  with  them,  were  his  from  his 
start  in  Cambridge  as  a  freshman  at  Trinity  Hall.  But  a 
man  of  the  world  and  a  worldly  man  are  very  different  per- 
sons, and  from  worldly  aims  and  actions  young  Ainger  was 
entirely  free.  His  looks,  too,  were  anything  but  mundane, 
and  perhaps  a  more  striking  figure  never  broke  academic 
conventionalities.  '  I  try,**  says  one  who  knew  him  then,  '  to 
retrieve  and  gather  up  some  fragments  of  those  far-away  days. 
The  figure  that  moves  through  them  is  very  much  that  which 
his  latest  acquaintance  knew.  The  hair  was  colourless  even 
then,  and  changed  only  for  the  better  when  it  became  dis- 
tinctly white.  The  face  never  altered  ;  nor  the  gait ;  nor  the 
circular  swing  out  of  the  left  arm ;  nor  the  tossing  back  of  the 
lock  that  would  fall  forward;  nor  the  quick,  bird-like  turn  of 
the  head.  Time  had  no  power  over  the  steady  blue  eyes,  nor 
over  their  glint  of  merriment  heralding  the  expressive  twitch 
of  the  mouth,  as  it  delivered  some  sportful  jest  or  caustic  com- 
ment.' As  for  his  figure,  so  strangely  convertible,  so  incor- 
poreal (if  the  term  be  allowed  us),  at  one  moment  altogether 
fantastic,  at  another  impressively  dignified,  perhaps  nothing 
better  evokes  it  than  his  own  description,  written  about  now, 
of  the  various  vicissitudes  he  put  it  to.  '  In  the  course  of  my 
chequered  career,  I  have  slept  at  different  times  under  a  sofa, 
in  an  armchair,  before  the  turf,  fire  in  a  Highland  cottage. 

32 


Alfred  Aincer  in  youth. 

From  a  fhotos.'raph  by  Miss  Johnston. 


CAMBRIDGE  83 

Once  while  reading  in  my  bedroom  I  fell  asleep  over  the  back 
of  the  bed,  and  was  found  the  next  morning  hanging  in  that 
position  like  fine  things  airing.' 

When  Ainger  went  up  to  Trinity  Hall,  Latham  and  Leslie 
Stephen  were  tutors  there ;  Henry  Fawcett  was  a  fellow ; 
George  Trevelyan,  Horace  Smith,  W.  C.  Gully,  J.  E.  Gorst, 
G.  P.  Bidder,  W.  Jack  (now  Professor  Jack  of  Glasgow), 
and  A.  W.  Ward,  the  present  Master  of  Peterhouse,  were 
among  his  university  contemporaries.  At  that  time  the 
Crimean  campaign  was  not  yet  over.  The  spirit  of  heroism 
and  self-sacrifice  called  forth  by  the  war  was  in  the  air ; 
sorrow  was  all  around  and  a  feeling  of  insecurity  prevailed. 
It  was  a  religious  moment — when  the  need  of  faith  and  of 
discipline  had  come  home  to  the  hearts  of  men,  and  when 
such  personalities  as  Maurice,  Robertson,  and  Kingsley  were 
making  'belief  attractive.  The  love  of  the  spiritual,  the 
reaction  against  commercialism  were  evident.  Tennyson, 
Carlyle,  and  Ruskin  were  the  prophets  of  the  day ;  in  art, 
the  Pre-Raphaelites  were  rising  into  prominence,  while  the 
Heir  of  Redclyffe  was  the  novel  most  demanded  by  the 
wounded  officers  in  Hospital. 

'At  that  period,'  writes  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen,  in  his  Life  of 
Fawcett,  '  the  more  sentimental  youth  learnt  Tennyson  by 
heart,  wept  over  Jane  Eyre,  and  was  beginning  to  appreciate 
Browning.  If  more  seriously  disposed,  he  read  Sartor 
Resarius  and  The  French  Revolution ;  he  followed  the 
teachings  of  Maurice  and  had  some  leaning  to  "  Christian 
Socialism."  But  there  was  also  an  influential  set  of  young 
men  with  opposite  views.  The  sterner  Utilitarians  looked 
to  Mill  as  their  great  prophet.  They  repudiated  Carlyle 
as  reactionary,  and  set  down  Maurice  as  muddle-headed.' 
Ainger  belonged  heart  and  soul  to  the  other  party,  and  the 
two  groups  had  little  in  common  between  them. 

Such  were  the  intellectual  conditions  of  1856,  and  such  the 
mental  atmosphere  in  which  Alfred  Ainger  found  himself. 
At  that  time  entrance  scholarships  did  not  exist  and  the 
scholarship  examination  took  place  at  the  end  of  the  first 
year.     Ainger  was  bracketed  'first'  with  a  friend,  with  whom 

c 


34  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

he  also  sliared  the  Chetswode  Exhibition,  which  carried  with 
it  the  duties  of  Chapel  Clerk.  But  his  triumphs  were  short- 
lived. Academic  ambitions  were  not  for  one  whose  delicate 
health  soon  compelled  him  to  draw  in  and  to  renounce  the 
race  for  honours.  For  the  first  two  years  of  his  University 
life  he  read  for  a  mathematical  degree.  But  it  was  gradually 
borne  in  upon  him  that  mathematics  suited  neither  his  taste 
nor  his  powers,  and  in  1858  he  finally  decided  to  abandon 
them  and  to  embrace  the  Law  as  his  profession. 

From  the  day  of  his  arrival  in  Cambridge,  he  made  friends 
in  all  directions.  '  Sunday  I  breakfasted  with  Ainger,  and  in 
the  evening  he  took  tea  with  me,  as  also  Ward,  Jack, 
Davidson,  Bidder ' — so  runs  a  passage  in  the  diary  of  a  con- 
temporary.^ '  That  entry,'  he  tells  us,  '  recalls  those  Sunday 
walks  which  used  to  be  such  delightful  incidents  of  our 
Cambridge  life — walks  after  breakfast  and  generally  lasting 
till  the  afternoon  service  at  Great  St.  Mary's  .  .  .  walks  to 
Madingley,  or  over  the  Gogmagogs,  or  to  Byron's  Pool,  if  the 
day  was  hot,  or  in  the  fens  towards  Ely.' 

Ainger's  closest  friends  were  naturally  those  who  thought 
like  himself,  but  he  had  others  and  from  different  circles. 
Foremost  among  these  was  Henry  Fawcett,  to  whom  he  often 
read  aloud,  and  whose  gaiety,  as  well  as  his  courage,  endeared 
him  to  all  who  came  near  him,  Alfred  not  least  among  them. 
Nor  were  all  his  comrades  book-men.  '  He  loved,'  says  the 
same  writer, '  the  quiet  life  and  the  quiet  country  walk ;  but 
none  the  less  ...  he  took  the  keenest  interest  in  all  college 
sports ;  and  so  it  was  that  he  drew  men  of  all  kinds  by  the 
attraction  of  his  innate  manliness  as  much  as  by  the  charm 
of  his  conversation,  ...  It  was  to  one  of  these  .  .  .  Henry 
Davidson,  who  had  achieved  greatness  as  "  Stroke"  in  the 
Trinity  Hall  boat,  that  I  owed  my  introduction  to  Ainger,  at 
a  Trinity  Hall  boat-supper,  which  was  to  me  a  memorable 
festival,  raised  above  the  level  of  all  other  entertainments  of 
the  kind,  first  by  a  scholarly  speech  in  praise  of  cricket  by 
Mr.  Matthew  Kempson  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  most  of  all  by  a  recita- 
tion  by   Ainger,    descriptive — as   I    remember   well — of  the 

1  Dr.  H.  Bird  wood,  C.S.L 


CAMBRIDGE  35 

sights  and  sounds  of  an  English  fair,  which  revealed  to  many 
of  us  for  the  first  time,  his  fine  faculty  of  ohservation  .  .  . 
his  frolic  and  abounding  sense  of  humour,  and  that  most 
precious  gift  of  clear,  resonant  and  sympathetic  speech.  .  .  .' 
Excepting  for  the  record  of  such  events  as  these,  there  is  no 
need  to  tell  the  story  of  his  Cambridge  days  in  other  words 
than  his  own.  His  letters  to  William  Elderton,  who  had 
remained  behind  at  King's  College,  give  the  truest  picture  of 
his  thoughts  and  doings  and  are  best  read  in  due  sequence. 
He  could  not  at  first  get  rooms  at  Trinity  Hall  and  took 
lodgings  in  King's  Parade  whence  his  first  impressions  are 
dated. 

'  Saturday  Evening. 

'  My  dear  Willy,  Here  I  am  as  comfortably  established  as  if  I 
had  been  born  on  the  place.  I  have  got  capital  rooms.  ...  I 
am  over  a  respectable  fancy-stationer.  ...  I  think  I  shall  like  the 
life  immensely.  .  .  .  The  tutor,  Mr.  Latham,  is  a  capital  fellow, 
most  obliging  and  conversational.  ...  I  think  you  would  have 
smiled  to  see  me  this  morning  in  chapel  in  a  white  surplice  which 
the  whole  University  wears  on  Sundays  and  Saints'  Days,  and 
gives  one  the  appearance  of  an  angel  just  out  of  bed.  There  is  a 
story  afloat  of  a  freshman,  who  was  detected  going  out  to  a 
wine  in  his  surplice,  because  it  was  a  Saint's  Day ;  but  his  bed- 
maker  providentially  informed  him  in  time.  ...  I  have  got 
Horace  Smith  up  hei'e.' 

'  King's  Parade,  Friday  Night. 

'Having  adjusted  the  furniture,  made  up  the  fire,  and  arranged 
everything  in  a  snug  manner  for  the  evening,  I  sit  down  to  write 
to  you  with  infinite  satisfaction.  I  have  been  writing  like  a 
steam-engine  this  evening,  at  a  book-work  paper  in  mathematics, 
given  me  by  my  tutor,  and  my  brain  requires  a  little  friendly 
gossip  to  restore  it. 

'  Thank  you  very  much  for  your  speedy  reply — I  know  you  will 
be  hard  at  work,  so  I  cannot  expect  you  to  find  me  much  time. 

'  This  is  a  most  delightful  life — most  various,  and  most  charming. 
A  man  can  very  well  choose  his  "set";  and  when  he  has  once 
picked  out  his  style  of  friends,  he  is  not  interfered  with  by  the 
others.  I  know  a  very  large  number  of  men  in  the  University, 
and  am  gradually  making  new  acquaintances  at  my  own  College. 


36  LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

I  am  glad  to  tell  you  that  Trinity  Hall,  though  a  small  College, 
stands  very  high  in  the  opinion  of  the  University,  as  a  nice  body 
of  men,  and  is  much  respected.  It  is  also  high  as  a  boating 
College ;  and  it  holds  the  second  place  on  the  river :  St.  John's 
being  at  the  head. 

'  I  have  heard  to-day  of  the  Celebrated  Characters  that  have 
been  at  this  College. 

'  Sterling  was  here ;  Selden  (the  table-talk  man) ;  Bulwer 
Lytton  ;  Lord  Chesterfield  (I  believe)  and  last,  not  least,  the  Rev. 
F.  D.  Maurice,  who  was  here  for  two  years,  and  then  migrated  to 
Oxford. — I  am  becoming  quite  proud  of  the  institution. 

We  have  got,  I  think,  a  very  nice  set  of  freshmen  up.  They 
seem  all  very  good  fellows.  Men  say  that  Trinity  Hall  has  the 
best  set  this  year.  One  gentleman  told  me  that  at  his  college, 
they  had  six  freshmen  come  up,  and  four  of  them  squinted ! 

'  Ours  do  not  display  obliquity  of  vision  ;  with  us,  the  "  lisp  "  is 
the  prevailing  pecularity.  I  tell  my  friends  that  "  they  lisp  in 
numbers,"  for  which  I  am  very  properly  scouted  by  every  well- 
regulated  mind. 

'  You  really  must  come  down  to  Cambridge  some  time  or  other. 
Do  come  while  I  am  here,  and  see  the  Lions.  Trinity  College 
Kitchen  is  not  one  of  the  least  interesting.  The  one  at  the 
Reform  Club  is  nothing  to  it.  At  Trinity  they  dine  six  hundred 
men  every  day.  The  head-cook  keeps  his  carriage ;  and  his 
perquisites  are  something  enormous,  making  his  salary  altogether 
larger  than  that  of  the  Master  of  Trinity, — Whewell. 

'  Cambridge  is  remarkably  full  of  Churches — you  step  upon  a 
sacred  edifice  wherever  you  turn.  At  the  largest  of  these 
Churches,  St.  Mary's,  is  preached  every  Sunday  afternoon  the 
University  sermon.  Different  celebrated  men  are  appointed  at 
different  times  to  preach  these  sermons.  Next  month,  November, 
our  friend  Trench  is  coming  down,  and  I  anticipate  a  great  treat. 
I  shall  generally  go  in  the  evenings  to  hear  Harvey  Goodwin,  the 
author  of  Goodwin's  Course  of  Matheinatics,  which  I  dare  say  you 
know ;  he  preaches  in  his  Parish  Church  here,  and  jDreaches 
remarkably  well. 

'  I  don't  know  that  there  is  anybody  you  know  here  besides 
old  Horace,  whom  I  see  constantly. 

'  Write  again  soon,  old  boy,  and  tell  us  all  you  are  doing,  what 
you  have  been  reading,  and  etc.  I  will  return  the  compliment 
whenever  I  can  find  time.  I  have  been  reading  again  that  grand 
Epic,  Alto7i  Locke ;  which  I  find  I  have  been  rather  underrating. 


CAMBRIDGE  37 

It  is  most  fine  in  parts.  The  chapters  about  Cambridge  have  a 
fresh  interest  for  me  now.  I  have  also  read  a  splendid  sermon  of 
Kingsley's  called  The  Message  of  the  Church  to  the  Working-man.  I 
don't  know  that  you  would  like  it.  It  tends  to  put  men  on  an 
equality,  which  I  think  you  would  find  a  difficulty  in  stomaching, 
my  blessed  tory  friend. 

'  I  have  just  finished  Philip  II.,  and  to  my  taste,  I  think,  for 
sustained  interest  and  graphic,  nay,  even  brilliant  narration,  it 
will  bear  comparison  with  any  history  I  know. 

'  Don't  tell  the  fellows  at  College  that  you  have  heard  from  me 
this  time;  for  I  have  not  written  to  Browne  yet,  and  he  may 
think  me  neglectful — I  am  going  to  write  to  him. — Believe  me, 
ever  your  affectionate  friend,  Alfred  Ainoer.' 

'  Cambridge,  Saturday  Xight. 

'  I  repeat,  I  am  going  to  write  you  a  most  idiotic  note,^  for  I 
feel  dull  and  stupid,  and  unfit  for  anything  but  my  pillow.  Many 
thanks  for  your  speedy  response  to  my  last.  If  I  might  suggest 
any  alteration  in  your  letters  (which  are  otherwise  immaculate),  I 
would  mention  that  they  might  be  a  little  longer ;  and  they  would 
possess  very  great  interest  to  me,  if  you  would  tell  me  of  any- 
thing that  has  struck  you  particularly  in  the  course  of  the  last 
week ;  or  since  you  wrote  last ;  any  opinions  you  may  have 
formed,  any  you  have  changed,  anything  you  have  seen  in  a 
new  light,  etc.,  etc.  I  intend  always  to  do  this  to  you ;  and  I 
hope  you  will  do  it  to  me. 

'I  saw  Proctor  yesterday.  He  told  me  he  had  heard  from  you 
and  he  mentioned  the  premium  you  offered  for  an  essay.  It  is 
worth  trying  for — I  think  I  shall  go  in  for  it. 

'  Nothing  of  any  importance  has  occurred,  I  think,  since  I  last 
wrote.  There  have  been  some  boat-races  this  week,  which  I 
witnessed  from  the  bank  of  our  beloved  river.  A  boat-race  is  the 
most  exciting  thing  you  can  imagine,  I  will  not  attempt  to  de- 
scribe it,  for  it  has  been  done  admirably  in  Alton  Locke,  in  the 
chapter  headed  "  Cambridge."  I  will  lend  you  the  tale,  if  you 
have  not  had  it,  when  1  am  up  at  Christmas. 

'  After  the  race  yesterday,  there  was  an  amusing  incident,  which 
afforded  considerable  merriment  to  those  not  concerned  in  it.  A 
ferry-boat  which  was  crossing  the  river  had  taken  a  great  many 
too  many  men  on  board,  and  she  had  hardly  left  the  bank,  when 

1  'Ah,  poor  dear,  he  is  much  the  same.'— W.  A.  E. 

ij6&585 


38  LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

she  began  gradually  to  settle  down.  About  fifteen  men  took  to 
the  water.  Some  of  them,  freshmen,  not  knowing  the  depths  of 
that  classic  ditch,  the  Cam,  plunged  vigorously  in,  thinking  to 
swim  to  the  shore.  But  the  water  only  came  up  to  their  waists  ; 
and  a  Trinity  Hall  gentleman,  of  great  length,  who  was  one  of 
the  sufferers,  appeared  when  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  only  as 
if  he  were  in  a  footbath.  But  if  you  can  conceive  a  number  of 
young  men,  in  every  conceivable  costume,  of  every  conceivable 
colour,  wading  about  in  a  narrow  stream  amid  shrieks  of  laughter 
from  the  banks,  you  will  picture  a  spectacle,  highly  gratifying,  as 
I  before  observed,  to  those — not  in  the  water. 

'I  am  thinking  of  writing  a  poem  on  this  spirit-stirring  subject, 
beginning : 

"Toll  for  the  brave," 

after  Cowper. 

'  Richard  Chenevix  Trench  preached  here  last  Sunday.  The 
result,  I  am  very  sorry  to  say,  was  universal  disappointment.  I 
have  not  been  able  to  find  one  man  yet  who  could  discover  what 
the  Sermon  was  about.  It  is  needless  to  say,  /  could  not.  He 
chose,  too,  one  of  the  grandest  and  deepest  texts  in  the  New 
Testament.  The  1st  verse  of  1st  chapter  of  St.  John.  And  he 
talked  a  great  deal  about  St.  Augustine ;  but  any  more  I  cannot 
tell  you.  He  attracted  an  enormous  congregation  by  his  reputa- 
tion as  a  writer ;  but  there  will  be  a  great  falling  off  to-morrow. 
I  confess  I  think  Trench's  forte  is  rather  as  a  linguist  and  an 
etymologist — and,  I  would  add,  as  a  writer  of  very  sterling 
English — than  as  a  Divine. 

'  I  cannot  agree  with  you  and  Mackay  that  Kingsley  and 
Tennyson  are  "imitators"  of  that  other  gentleman  (F.  D. 
Maurice),  I  rather  think  that  both  these  writers  had  shewn  the 
tendency  of  their  teaching  to  the  world  before  the  other.  But 
whether  or  no,  there  is  so  much  distinctness  of  form,  if  there  is 
the  same  end  sought,  in  these  writers,  that  I  cannot  hold  that 
they  are  anything  but  original, 

'  Perhaps  you  may  say  that  Kingsley  takes  and  applies  to  the 
concrete  what  M.  and  others  have  taught  in  the  abstract.  I  be- 
lieve that  this  is  so  ]  and  Alton  Locke  appears  to  me  the  most  search- 
ing and  the  most  earnest  application  of  the  laws  of  Christ  to  the 
present  condition  of  society,  that  I  ever  read  in  fiction. 

'  The  more  I  read,  and  the  more  I  see  of  the  world,  the  more 
am  I  convinced  that  the  great  secret  of  the  faithlessness  of  this 
age  is  in  the  separation  of  classes.     I  often  think  of  those  lines 


CAMBRIDGE  39 

your  sister  wrote  one  evening  at  Blindley  Heath ;  and  think  how 
they  express  a  great  national  want.  So  long  as  the  rich  and  the 
poor  are  separated,  by  mutual  pride  and  by  the  covetousness  of 
the  rich  and  the  envy  of  the  poor,  so  long,  I  say,  there  will  never 
be  a  lively  faith  felt  by  this  nation  in  the  words  of  Christianity. 

'  And  those  whose  worldly  interest  it  is  to  keep  them  separated 
— those  traducers ;  those  SiafSoXoi,  to  use  the  name  which  the 
Greeks  gave  to  the  Father  of  Lies  ;  whether  it  be  the  mob-orators, 
who  tell  their  poor  fellow-men  that  the  rich  are  all  tyrants,  are  all 
vicious,  dissolute,  and  sordid,  or  whether  it  be  the  delicate-handed 
political  economist,  who  says  the  "Masses"  must  be  kept  down — 
why  these  do  a  wickedness,  the  results  of  which  are  quite  incalcul- 
able ;  and  they  will  answer  it  before  a  Higher  Court  than  they  can 
be  arraigned  before  on  Earth. 

'  The  rich  should  know  how  much  of  virtue  there  is  among  the 
poor — virtues,  moreover,  which  the  rich  truly  have  need  to  exer- 
cise. They  should  know  how  much  of  sorrow,  of  suffering,  of 
patient  endurance,  of  family  love,  strengthened  too  often  by  a 
community  of  hunger  and  destitution,  there  is  in  a  world  of  which 
they  have  no  experience.  And  the  poor  need  just  as  much  to 
be  told  that  gentlefolks  who  ride  in  their  carriages  ai-e  not,  of 
necessity,  exempt  from  all  cares  ;  that  both  rich  and  poor  have 
their  sources  of  joy  and  grief;  that  both  must  be  perfected  by 
suffering  if  they  would  enter  the  mansions  prepared  for  them. 

'And  now  I  really  must  finish,  or  I  shall  make  the  letter  over- 
weight, and  I  am  sure  it  is  not  worth  twopence. 

'  If  you  love  me,  tear  this  up  directly,  or  burn  it.  .  .  . — Ever 
your  affectionate  friend,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

*  Thursday  Night,  Nov.  20,  1856. 

'I  have  just  returned  from  dining  with  the  Master  of  Trinity 
Hall,  who  is  a  hospitable  old  bird,  and  has  all  the  freshmen  to 
dine  with  him  every  Michaelmas  Term.  Horace  Smith  remark- 
ing to  me  after  dinner  that  he  had  heard  from  you,  I  asked  him^ 
if  your  letter  contained  nothing  private,  if  he  would  let  me  see 
it,  .  .  .  And  I  feel  myself  obliged,  though  it  is  not  my  turn  to 
write,  to  tell  you  how  much  I  enjoyed  it,  and  at  the  same  time 
how  much  of  it  surprised  me. 

'I  think  that  what  you  say  of  a  too  exclusive  study  of  the 
writers  and  the  train  of  thought  induced  by  the  day  in  which  one 
lives,  is  very  just,  and  worthy  of  much  remembrance.  We  are  too 
apt  selfishly  to  confine  our  attention  to  our  own  day,  and  neglect 


40  IJFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

to  seek  the  great  method  of  understanding  it,  and  all  time,  by 
studying  other  times,  and  the  men  they  produced.  But  still  there 
is  this  to  be  said,  that  every  man  (always  of  course  after  the  great 
object  of  his  existence)  is  to  live  for  his  own  time,  and  for  suc- 
ceeding times,  and  that  therefore  he  does  well  to  study  those 
Seers  of  the  day,  whoever  they  be,  who  may  interpret  to  him  those 
failings  and  those  yearnings — those  doubts  and  heart-sinkings 
which  the  contemplation  of  his  existing  time  will  have  produced 
in  his  heart.  "Why  is  it,"  says  Kingsley,  '^that  the  latest  poet 
has  generally  the  greatest  influence  over  the  minds  of  the  young  ? 
Surely  not  the  mere  charm  of  novelty  ?  The  reason  is  that  he, 
living  amid  the  same  hopes,  the  same  temptations,  the  same  sphere 
of  observation  as  they,  gives  utterance  and  outward  form  to  the 
very  questions,  which,  vague  and  wordless,  have  been  exercising 
their  hearts." 

'  I  am  sure  it  must  be  this  which  causes  me  to  have  so  intense 
an  admiration  of  Tennyson,  and  a  feeling  towards  In  Memoriam, 
which  is  like  an  affection  towards  a  personal  friend,  because  I 
found  in  it  an  expression  of  so  many  of  the  doubts  and  difficulties 
which  have  beset  me  at  different  periods  of  my  life.  But  I  agree 
with  you  that  that  is  not  enough,  that  man's  mind  must  be  trained, 
and  his  nature  fed  by  the  knowledge  of  other  times,  that  he  may 
acquire  an  experience  (the  living  experience  of  men  and  women 
before  him),  which  he  may  apply  to  the  time  in  which  he  is  placed. 
So  far,  so  good.  But  now,  I  confess  that  I  do  not  know  how  you 
have  got  the  notion  that  Tennyson  gives  to  reason  a  higher  place 
than  to  faith.  As  far  as  I  have  understood  the  poem,  in  In 
Memoriam  he  does  exactly  the  reverse  to  this.  I  have  not  the 
poem  by  me  ;  but  numbers  of  passages  crowd  upon  me,  to  say  the 
reverse  to  what  you  say.  I  believe  that  in  one  place  he  talks  of 
faith — "and  reason,  like  the  younger  child."  I  am  quite  certain 
that  if  you  read  it  again  you  will  find  that  he  considers  faith  as 
the  highest  lore  of  the  human  intellect,  and  that  in  this,  as  in 
everything  else,  in  the  words  of  Bacon,  we  conquer  by  obeying. 

'  I  will  undertake  to  convince  you  of  this  in  five  minutes,  with 
the  poem  in  my  hands.  Again,  I  do  not,  with  you,  look  upon 
Tennyson  in  the  light  of  a  dreamy,  or  enervating  poet.  I  believe 
that,  rightly  read,  he  is  as  eminently  a  practical  teacher  in  his 
way  as  Shakespeare.  .  .  . 

'Again,  thank  you  for  your  letters.  I  assure  you  that,  placed  as 
I  am  out  of  the  pale  of  any  literary  thought,  I  learn  much  and 
think  much  by  their  aid.  .  .  , 


CAMBRIDGE  41 

'  I  send  you  herewith  the  Idylls  of  the  King.  .  .  .  Their  merits 
are  very  great,  and  greater  than  any  one  would  suppose  who  had 
not  some  acquaintance  with  tliat  large  cycle  of  romances  which 
formed  almost  the  only  popular  literature  of  the  feudal  times. 
The  immense  value  of  these  old  romances  is  not  so  much  in  their 
intrinsic  merits.  The  great  interest  they  have  for  us  is  rather 
fi'om  the  people  who  first  read  them,  than  from  those  who  wrote 
them.  .  .  .  They  show  us  the  rude  virtues  and  the  rude  vices. 
They  do  not,  it  is  true,  exhibit  one  of  the  fundamental  evils  of 
the  time — the  degradation  of  the  lower  class,  the  great  body 
of  villeins — and  therefore  in  some  respects  it  is  not  a  true  picture. 
But  it  is  evident  that  the  ideal  of  a  gentleman  was  in  the  minds 
of  the  knightly  readers,  and  when  we  read  of  the  bravery,  the 
truth,  the  chastity,  the  gallantry,  and  the  scorn  of  all  that  is 
mean,  that  is  held  up  for  imitation  in  these  romances,  we  may 
be  inclined  to  blush  for  our  more  minute  civilisation,  which 
with  its  many  refinements  and  improvements  has  lost  some  of 
its  broader  and  healthier  features.  .  .  .  The  third  and  fourth 
idylls  are,  I  think,  the  best.  The  fourth  and  last  is  perfect.  If 
you  have  an  opportunity,  read  them  aloud,  and  so  lose  none  of 
the  effects  of  the  versification.  (N.B.  Private.^  Don't  read  the 
"  Vivien "  aloud.  There  are  certain  passages  in  it  which  are 
not  pleasant  to  read  before  ladies,  though  the  poem  itself  is 
perhaps  more  powerful  than  any  of  the  others.  There  is  more 
of  the  Shakspeare-mind  in  it.' 

'  Cambridge,  Monday  Night. 

'The  constancy  with  which  you  answer  my  letters,  in  the 
midst  of  all  your  hard  work,  is  most  good  of  you — and  I  feel 
compelled  to  write  to  you  yet  once  more,  though  I  shall  be  in 
London,  I  hope,  this  day  week. 

'  I  am  tired  to-night,  and  feel  very  disinclined  for  reading : 
and  had  "  I  the  tediousness  of  a  king,  could  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  bestow  it  all  on  your  worship." 

'  The  principal  new  character  that  I  have  become  acquainted 
with  since  I  have  been  up,  is  that  of  Socrates.  Have  you  ever 
read  any  Plato  ?  You  will  be  filled  with  admiration  of  the 
philosophy  of  that  old  Athenian,  who  knew  the  soul  was  immortal, 
and  met  his  death  without  a  pang.  The  practical  nature,  and  the 
conscientiousness  of  his  arguments  are  wonderful.  There  are 
strong  points  of  resemblance  between  Socrates  and  Bacon,  in  the 
method  in  which  they  conducted  the  search  after  truth.     Both 


42  IJFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

effected  a  reformation  in  philosophy,  both  brought  down  vague 
and  intangible  theories  to  an  investigation  of  existing  things — 
though  one  was  the  reformer  of  moral  philosophy  and  the  other 
of  physical.  We  will  have  a  glance  at  some  of  the  Socratic 
methods,  some  day. 

' "  My  dear  Mary,  I  will  now  conclude " 

' "  That 's  rayther  a  sudden  pull  up  ;  ain't  it  }  "  said  Mr.  Weller. 

'"  I  don't  know,"  said  Sam,  "she'll  wish  there  was  more,  and 
that 's  the  great  art  of  letter-writing." — Dear  Willy,  ever  yours, 

Alfred  Ainger.' 

The  following  note  is  to  his  old  friend,  Gertrude  King,  and 
belongs  to  these  early  Cambridge  days : — 

'Sunday  evening,  a  time  which  calls  up  before  me  the 
pleasantest  evenings  of  my  life.  You  are  all  constantly  in  my 
thoughts,  but  this  is  a  time  when  regrets  are  hardest  to  be 
dispelled.  Sunday  is  a  very  delightful  day  to  me  here.  The 
extreme  quiet  after  the  noise  of  the  week  is  refreshing.  .  .  . 
Everything  goes  on  much  the  same.  I  like  the  life  very  much 
indeed,  and  don't  know  that  I  was  ever  happier.  I  know  an 
immense  number  of  men  in  the  university,  but  I  do  not  find 
myself  incommoded  by  them. — Believe  me,  your  affectionate 
brother,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

The  bachelor  formality  of  the  last  phrase — piquant  from 
one  so  young  and  social — and  the  wistful  tenderness  of  the 
opening  words  are  alike  characteristic  of  the  writer.  In  spite 
of  all  his  fun,  he  made  a  serious  impression  on  his  contem- 
poraries. '  A  true  man,'  says  one  of  them,i  '  who  might  in 
any  circumstances  be  relied  on  to  do  what  was  right,  nor  count 
the  cost — a  man  firm  of  purpose,  reverent,  and  loveable.'' 
And  his  thought  and  his  character  were  one.  There  is 
a  passage  from  a  University  essay  of  his,  sent,  like  the 
letters  that  follow,  to  his  regular  correspondent  Elderton, 
the  set  thought  of  which  is  typical  of  the  man. 

'  Trinity  Hall,  Sunday  Evening,  Nov.  1857. 

' .  .  .  There  are  some  writers  at  the  present  day  who  look 

back  with   an  excess  of  veneration  to  the   reign   of  Elizabeth. 

The  time  has  yet  to  come  when  England  shall  fully  recognise 

the  worth  of  the  Puritans.     In  this  remark,  be  it  observed,  we 

^  Mr.  Birdwood. 


CAMimiDGE  43 

say  nothing  against  the  worthies — the  Raleighs  and  Sidneys  of 
Ehzabeth's  reign.  The  essentially  practical  character  of  the 
monarch  gave  a  work — a  high  and  ennobling  work — to  her  devoted 
servants,  and  directed  that  wild  fervour  and  restlessness  which 
under  another  ruler  might  have  proved  a  dangerous  element. 
But  the  men  of  the  time  are  seen  by  us  in  the  light  of  the  time, 
and  win  a  glory  from  the  national  prosperity.  It  is  in  the  same 
country,  in  adversity  and  mourning,  that  we  look  back  on  the 
Puritans,  fighting  strongfully  and  prayerfully  in  her  defence. 
Divested  of  all  the  brilliancy  with  which  it  shone  when  Shak- 
speare  wrote  and  Drake  fought,  the  reformed  religion  had  still 
more  surely  to  prove  its  strength  and  endurance  in  the  time  of 
the  Stuarts.  The  man  who  fought  most  bravely,  prayed  most 
earnestly,  counselled  the  most  wisely  in  those  times  was  Oliver 
Cromwell. 

' .  .  .  We  are  going  to  do  Mozart's  Requiem  Mass  at  the  Musical 
Society  next  week.  Sterndale  Bennett  is  coming  down  to  conduct. 
As  the  choruses  are  very  hard,  I  shall  not  sing  in  it,  but  place 
myself  in  a  snug  corner  of  the  hall,  with  the  vocal  score  in  my 
hands,  and  enjoy  myself  immensely.     It  is  a  sublime  Mass.' 

'  Cambridge,  Sunday  Night,  Nov,  17. 

*.  .  .  You  know  what  Swift  says  : — 

'"That  is  excellently  observed,"  say  I,  '^when  I  meet  with  an 
opinion  that  agrees  with  mine." 

'  In  this  way,  I  say  your  remarks  are  most  just  and  most  fat- 
seeing.  .  .  .  With  regard  to  the  consequences  of  a  reformation 
in  religion  it  was  quite  necessary  that  there  should  be  corre- 
sponding reformations  in  Philosophy  and  Politics,  or  any  other 
branch  of  knowledge.  The  emerging  from  darkness  into  light 
disclosed  to  men  many  things,  besides  their  true  relation  to 
their  God.  You  know  my  favourite  old  doctrine  that  true  faith 
instantly  places  a  man,  as  it  were,  upon  a  height,  from  which 
he  has  an  infinitely  wider  view  than  the  many  who  are  wandering 
through  life  without  a  clue.  The  Bible  was  a  key  to  an  infinite 
number  of  problems,  which,  without  it,  must  have  remained 
unsolved  to  this  day. 

'  What  you  say  of  the  difference  between  the  religion  of  ancient 
times  and  our  own,  deserves  more  notice.  Maurice,  in  his  lectures 
on  the  religion  of  Ancient  Rome,  has  shown  how  the  bond  which 
held  the  votaries  of  that  religion  together,  was  the  common 
Fatherhood,  which  was  the  foundation  of  it.     Man  was  bound 


44  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

to  his  fellow-man  by  the  ruling  faith  in  an  infinite  power^  of 
whose  nature  and  attributes  there  was  no  difference  of  opinion. 
The  religion  was  false,  but  it  had  this  power  of  binding  men  by 
an  artificial  chain ;  which  was  only  to  be  broken  when  the  true 
Faith  began  its  certain  and  steady  growth. 

*■  Maurice  shows  that  whatever  there  was  of  greatness,  of  nobility, 
of  disinterested  faith  in  the  religion  of  Ancient  Rome,  had  its 
origin  in  a  common  Fatherhood. 

'  This  is,  indeed,  exactly  what  you  say,  applied  to  the  particular 
instance.  "  Unity  is  strength "  is  a  truth,  in  a  deeper,  more 
universal  sense  than  the  other  maxim,  "  Union  is  strength."  You 
see  it  is  an  eternal  fact  that  there  can  be  no  union  amongr  men, 
if  only  that  which  unites  them  is  something  in  themselves.  The 
bond  that  encircles  them  is  no  true  bond  if  it  does  not  bind  them 
to  something.  Pray  forgive  me  for  merely  interpreting  your  own 
words,  but  it  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  work  out  for  myself  what 
is  good  of  another  man. 

'  The  tendency  of  this  age  is  divergent  rather  than  convergent. 
We  go  on  straggling  into  numberless  paths,  and  bye-paths,  and 
get  away  from  the  high  road — lose  ourselves.  God  grant  we  may 
all  of  us  find  our  way  back ;  yet  here  again  comes  in  the  absence 
of  "  Unity,"  the  cause,  as  I  believe,  of  all  the  Avorld's  troubles. 
I  believe,  with  you,  that  the  Trinity  in  Unity  is  the  highest  form 
of  a  Universal  Truth — the  unity  of  all  good  men — the  unity  of 
all  that  is  true ;  of  all  that  is  beautiful ;  of  all  that  is  good ;  of 
all  that  is  evil ;  so  that,  as  we  came  to  see  it  more  clearly,  the 
boundary  mark  between  what  is  good  and  what  is  vicious  would 
become  more  and  more  defined ;  and  the  true  rights  of  all  men 
would  be  more  clearly  acknowledged.  This,  I  believe,  is  what 
we  are  in  too  much  danger  of  forgetting. 

'  This  is  awfully  metaphysical,  and  I  dare  say  you  have  not  any 
idea  what  I  mean.  Write  and  tell  me.  ...  I  find  that  in  one  of 
the  sentences  in  this  letter,  at  least,  I  am  perfectly  unintelligible. 
I  mean  the  one  about  unity.  My  meaning  is  that  if  we  could 
more  distinctly  see  the  unity  of  the  good ;  that  is,  the  same 
nature  pertaining  to  all  things  good ;  and  also  a  common  nature 
existing  in  all  things  evil  ;  there  never  would  be  a  blending  of 
the  two,  and  a  man  would  never  want  an  amalgam  of  the  two,  but 
would  instantly  separate  them  and  find  their  parts  in  any  sub- 
stance, as  King  Hiero  did  with  the  Crown. 

'  I  fear  I  am  talking  egregious  bosh — but  I  think  I  have  some 
faint  idea  of  what  I  mean.' 


CAMBRIDGE  45 

Ainger  very  seldom  read  modern  books  of  thought  that 
went  against  his  own  opinions — perhaps  we  should  rather  say 
temperament.  His  mind  was  of  so  strong  a  '  complexion  "*  (to 
use  an  old  word)  that  it  hardly  acknowledged  the  presence 
of  belief  discordant  with  his  own.  When,  however,  The 
History  of  Civilization  appeared,  he  made  an  exception  and 
read  it. 

'  I  am  going  to  read  Buckle's  book ' — he  says. — '  It  is  very  well 
reviewed  in  the  Edinburgh  by  Sir  James  Stephen's  son.  I  believe 
Buckle  is  the  representative  of  the  positive  philosophy  school  in 
England.     There  is  no  God,  and  Buckle  is  his  prophet.' 

'  Cambridge,  Saturday  Evening,  May  9,  1858. 

'.  .  .  And  now  you  will  be  surprised,  I  know,  to  hear  that  I 
have  given  up  mathematics,  and  am  reading  Law,  in  which  I 
shall  take  my  degree.  My  reasons  for  this  step  were  several. 
I  never  cared  for  mathematics ;  I  have  not  the  mathematical 
power  to  take  a  good  degree ;  on  the  other  hand.  Law,  History, 
and  such  subjects  I  always  took  a  great  interest  in,  and  when  I 
leave  Cambridge  I  shall  have  acquired,  I  hope,  something  of 
Law,  which  I  should  have  had  to  read  subsequently.  So  I  am 
devoting  my  energies  to  Roman  Law :  Gaius  and  Justinian, 
and  English  Constitutional  History.  We  have  a  Law  Professor 
at  Trinity  Hall,  and  I  attend  his  lectures.  As  yet  I  like  the 
change  immensely.  .  .  . 

<  I  see is  a  moderate  tory,  and  unless  a  man  is  to  be  of  no 

party,  which  is  impossible,  I  suppose  he  had  better  be  that 
than  anything.' 

A  '  moderate  Tory,' '  if  anything,'  was  what  Ainger  always 
remained,  but  politics  were  not  his  strong  point.  He  turned 
away  from  them  with  weariness,  and  could  no  more  be  brought 
to  take  an  interest  in  them  than  in  anything  else  that  was  not 
natural  to  him.  In  his  eyes  they  meant  dust  and  futility, 
and  a  less  public-spirited  person,  except  in  moral  questions, 
it  would  perhaps  be  hard  to  find.  Even  University  affairs, 
such  as  the  discussion  about  abolishing  religious  tests,  which 
was  agitating  Cambridge  when  Ainger  first  came  there,  find 
no  mention  in  his  letters,  and  the  brief  extracts  that  follow 


46  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

contain  the  only  political  allusions  to  be  found  in  his  early 
correspondence. 

'  I  do  not  know  what's  to  become  of  the  new  ministry.  Coali- 
tion is  ca  very  good  things  if  the  various  members  can  agree ;  and 
I  hardly  see  how  Pam,  Lord  John  and  Gladstone  are  to  work  in 
the  same  crew.  The  last-named  gent  voted  for  the  late  ministry, 
and  now  takes  office  with  the  conspirators  who  overthrew  it.  All 
this  finesse  and  plotting  is  rather  dismal  to  contemplate,  while 
all  Europe  is  in  a  blaze.' 

'  I  assure  you  that  your  fortnightly  letter  is  one  of  my 
pleasantest  anticipations  at  College,  and,  indeed,  wherever  I  am. 
I  wish  I  knew  more  about  politics ;  but  what  you  said  about  Peel 
seems  to  have  given  me  some  idea  of  a  man,  of  whose  character 
I  was  before  profoundly  ignorant.  I  have,  I  fear,  left  your  letter 
behind  me  at  College,  for  I  should  like  to  have  it  by  me.  I  forget 
if  you  asked  me  any  questions.  I  will  ask  you  one  in  return 
{a  la  Quaker) :  "  What  is  the  difference  between  a  cow  and  a 
ricketty  chair .^"  "Because  one  gives  milk  and  the  other  gives 
whey ! " ' 

Riddles,  more  congenial  than  politics,  were  always  a 
favourite  game  of  his.  To  the  end  their  ingenuity  amused 
his  brain,  and  his  letters  to  Elderton  are  full  of  them  and 
of  verbal  quips. 

The  last  letter  and  the  three  that  follow  are  written  in 
vacation  time,  from  London ;  the  fourth  from  his  sister"'s 
home  at  Folkestone. 

'23  Carlton  Hill,  Sunday,  August  2". 

' .  . .  I  have  no  law  to  occupy  me,  and  shall,  I  hope,  get  through 
some  work  the  next  few  weeks.  There  is  not  much  temptation 
to  leave  the  house.  Everybody,  it  is  needless  to  say,  is  out  of 
town,  and  the  neighbourhood  looks  as  if  it  had  gone  to  bed  and 
forgotten  to  get  up  again.   .   .   . 

' ''  Nothing  is  so  difficult  as  a  beginning,"  says  Byron,  and  the 
truth,  I  vow,  never  appeared  to  me  so  clear  as  now.  I  don't  know 
really  what  to  tell  you — I  have  been  reading  Carlyle's  French 
Revolutio7i  ;  a  wonderful  book  it  is ;  quite  Thomas's  masterpiece. 
You  should  read  it.     I  have  also  been  airing  my  English   History 


CAMBRIDGE  47 

by  means  of  Hume,  with  whom  I  become  more  and  more  dis- 
gusted, he  being,  as  I  think,  shallow  and  flippant, 

'  I  have  been  to  see  Robson  in  the  burlesque  on  Medea — a  com- 
bination of  the  most  harrowing  tragedy  and  the  most  ludicrous 
farce  —  the  result  being  the  Sublime-ridiculous  with  no  step 
between,     I  must  read  it  to  you  some  day — 

'  Everybody  is  cutting  away  from  the  Modern  Babylon — Luard 
goes  to-day — I  have  seen  him  lately,  and  Moore,  and  Heath,  and 
Darlington,  and  some  other  of  our  old  friends.  Excuse  this 
Electric-jerky,  fragmentary  style  of  Epistolary  correspondence, 
which  you  must  attribute  to  the  Electricity  in  the  atmosphere,  I 
suppose.  Anything  like  original  composition  is  a  preposterous 
attempt.  I  looked  in  Cook's  letter-writer  to  see  if  he  suggested 
anything.  The  only  examples  I  could  find  were  "  a  letter  to  a 
lady  proposing  marriage  "  (beginning  "  Madam  ") ;  and  ''  from  a 
father  to  a  gentleman  apprenticing  his  son  to  the  oil  and  Italian 
business,"  in  neither  of  which  could  I  find  any  help  in  my  present 
wants. 

'  I  am  going  to  see  Piccoloraini  in  the  Traviata.  Your  sisters 
will  tell  you  that  she  dies  in  a  consumption  on  the  stage. 
Shocking,  is  it  not  ?  The  Decline  of  the  Drama  I  call  it — after 
this,  I  had  better  pei'haps  shut  up. — Ever  yours, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

*  PS. — Remember  me  most  kindly  to  all  your  circle. 

'P.P/S".— Write  soon. 

*(2)  PS. — Give  us  a  little  intelligence  in  your  next  letter. 
Your  last  was  singularly  slight.     Quite  an  ice- wafer  of  a  letter, 

*(3)  PS. — The  kitchen  fire  is  just  gone  out;  and  the  mutton 
is  hung  on  a  tree  to  roast.' 

'Monday  Morning,  August. 

'  Many  thanks  for  your  long  and  literary  letter.  You  say  you 
cannot  tell  why  I  call  Hume  shallow  and  flippant.     I  '11  tell  you, 

*1.  He  gives  us  facts,  but  seems  unable  to  see  real  motives. 
He  rarely  looks  deeper  than  the  surface  of  men's  actions.  If 
they  are  from  religious  motives,  I  always  find  a  lurking  sneer, 
and  something  murmured  about  superstition  (you  know  Hume 
was  a  Sceptic).  His  history  always  sounds  to  me  more  like  a 
story-telling,  with  little  or  no  analysis  of  men  or  minds.  You 
may  think  (and  I  'm  not  at  all  sure  that  you  're  not  right),  that  it 
is  a  merit  in  an  historian  to  tell  his  tale  and  leave  you  to  form 
your  own  judgments.     At  all  events  we  are  accustomed  to  find 


48  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

some  analysis  in  our  historians ;  and  a  want  of  it  shows,  I 
think,  a  lack  of  earnestness  on  the  part  of  the  historian.  You 
are  mistaken  in  thinking  that  Macaulay  is  my  model  historian.  I 
believe  that  to  those  who  do  not  like  the  trouble  of  judging  for 
themselves  (and  according  to  Puff  in  the  Critic  these  are  very 
small  indeed),  he  is  by  no  means  to  be  recommended. 

'  The  Travestie  from  Medea  does  not  come  direct  from  Euripides. 
The  story  was  dramatised  by  the  French  Legouve,  the  Italian 
Montenelli,  the  Enghsh  Thomas  Williams  ;  and  lastly  burlesqued 
by  Brough.  This  polyglot  story  is  thus  alluded  to  in  the 
Burlesque  : — 

"  Sangue,  Sangue,  spezziar,  spezziar  sue  cuore  " 
Which  means,  translated,  something  red  and  gory. 

"  Anche  di  spavento  atroce  strano  " 
Murder  in  Irish  !  no  !  Italiano. 

"  aiat" 
Sia  jxov  K€(f>a\a<i  ^Ao^  ovpavta 
(iaiTj'  Tt  he.  /xoi  ^t^v  ert  KepSos ;" 

"Stop  !  that's  Euripides.     '  Du  sang,  du  sang, 
Briser,  torturer  son  coeur — '     That 's  wrong. 

I  've  got  confused  with  all  these  various  jinglish  ; 
'Thunder and  Turf  and  even  that's  not  English." 
etc.  etc.  etc. 

*  I  have  been  reading  that  wondrous  Allegory,  the  Fairy  Qtieen. 
I  wish  I  had  you  by  me  to  explain  some  of  it,  as  you  have  had 
the  advantage  of  Brewer's  interpretation.  Some  of  the  Allegory 
is  of  course  clear  enough,  but  most  of  the  secondary  allusions,  and 
the  intricate  windings  in  the  history  of  Pi'otestantism  escape  my 
knowledge.  There  was  one  thing  I  came  upon  which,  as  I  beheve 
is  the  case  with  all  true  geniuses,  has  a  far  wider  truth  than  was 
ever  meant.  It  is  where  Una  and  the  lion  go  about  wandering  in 
search  of  the  knight — showing  how  it  is  Truth  (and  therefore 
Strength)  that  are  always  seeking  man ;  and  not  man  seeking 
truth.  That  we  have  no  power  to  raise  ourselves  to  the  truth, 
but  only  to  admit  the  truth  into  us — Bacon's  eternal  saying,  that 
"we  conquer  by  obeying."  How  infinitely  indebted  we  are  to 
that  reign  of  Elizabeth.  I  believe  that  Bacon,  Spenser,  Hooker, 
Shakespeare,  etc.,  have  done  more  to  interpi*et  the  Bible,  and 
make  us  more  and  more  convinced  of  the  eternal  truth  of  the 
Gospel,  than  ever  Mr.  Scott,  and  that  respectable  firm,  Doyley 
and  Mant  did.     God  knoAvs  we  have  much  to  learn  yet. 


CAMBRIDGE  49 

'  You  apologise  for  prosing.  Now  we  are  quits.  ...  I 
remain,  ever  yours,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  23  Carlton  Hill,  St.  John's  Wood. 

' .  .  .  I  quite  sympathise  with  you  in  your  remark  about  Emer- 
son. I  always  arise  from  reading  one  of  his  essays  with  an 
un-satisfied  sense  of  incompleteness.  His  yearnings  after  the  truth 
are  founded  evidently  on  no  sound  insight  into  things.  There 
is  much  that  I  admire,  much  that  is  original  and  striking,  but 
your  definition  is  a  true  one, — uncomfortable.  .  .  . 

'  Our  housemaid  was  good  enough  to  inform  me  yesterday  that 
she  considered  Henry  Fill,  and  the  Winter's  Tale  two  of  the 
weakest  of  Shakespeare's  plays.     Rather  good  that,  wasn't  it  ? 

'One  doesn't  expect  literary  criticism  for  twelve  pounds  a 
year.' 

*  Folkestone,  Wednesday  Morning. 

* .  .  .  On  Monday  I  read  Mtich  Ado.  I  was  much  surprised  at 
its  great  success.  I  little  thought  a  Folkestone  audience  would 
have  shown  such  appreciation  of  Shakespeare's  wit.  Every 
speech  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice  "told,"  and  as  to  Dogberry  and 
Verges,  they  caused  convulsive  laughter  on  all  sides.  I  will  send 
you  a  revicAv  of  that,  when  one  appears.  On  Thursday  I  am  to 
read  the  Tempest,  and  am  engaged  in  studying  it  now.  .  .  . 

'  We  have  dreadful  literary  fights  in  this  house.  There  are  so 
very  few  writers  on  whom  my  sisters  and  I  agree.  Emerson,  in 
particular,  is  a  great  bone  of  contention.  I  depreciate  him  on 
every  occasion,  and  the  rest  of  the  family  idolise  him.  I  believe 
he  is  little  more  than  a  clever  dresser-up  of  commonplaces. 

'  I  have  got  a  fancy  that  Dogberry  is  a  fair  specimen,  in  many 
respects,  of  a  Unitarian  ;  that  delicious  self-conceit — "  Good  old 
man,  he  will  be  talking,"  and  the  general  air  of  superiority  over 
his  superiors  is  very  Socinian.  You  have  not  seen  much  of  their 
society,  as  I  have.' 

'  Cambridge,  Monday  Night. 

'  I  take  my  first  opportunity  of  writing  you  a  connected  letter 
that  has  been  presented  to  me  since  I  received  your  last. 

'Thank  you  very  much,  old  fellow,  for  your  long  letters — I 
assure  you  they  are  a  great  treat  to  me,  and  that  I  learn  much 
from  them.  Placed  as  I  am  here,  alternating  the  chaff  and  gaiety 
of  college  gossip  with  the  rigid  analysis  of  mathematical  investi- 

D 


50  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

gation,  I  become  at  times  chilly-minded  and  careless ;  and  such 
episodes  as  your  letters  are  most  delightful  to  me.  There  are 
legions  of  problems  which  no  algebra  can  solve. 

'  I  shall  be  in  London,  I  hope,  on  the  fifteenth — we  shall  have 
not  a  little  to  talk  about. 

'  I  have  more  opportunity  of  seeing  the  clergy  in  plain  clothes 
(if  I  may  use  the  expression),  I  mxcan  in  their  un-official  capacity, 
here  in  Cambridge  than  ever  I  had  before — it  is  rather  amusing 
and  curious. 

'  I  am  beginning  to  have  a  glimpse  of  the  manner  in  which  the 
body  of  clergy  is  recruited,  and  the  previous  lives  of  those  Avho 
enter  it.  I  was  sitting  the  other  day  in  Hall,  next  to  a  fellow 
freshman,  a  dandy  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Harris,  who  dresses 
within  an  inch  of  his  life  (the  Harris-tocrat  of  our  College  I  call 
him ;  but  that  is  a  digression),  and  he  mentioned  casually  that  he 
had  been  for  two  or  three  yeai's  in  the  army,  and  was  now 
going  to  enter  the  ministry.  As  I  felt  quite  convinced  from  the 
character  of  the  man,  that  he  had  not  resolved  upon  so  singular  a 
change  from  a  conviction  of  the  great  privileges  of  a  minister,  I 
ventured  to  ask  him  the  cause.  He  told  me  deliberately  that 
there  was  a  living  in  his  family,  and  that  it  was  a  pity  it  should 
be  wasted !  And  that  is  the  way,  Sir,  that  our  ministry  is  kept 
up.     Right  tol  loral,  loral !     Such  is  life. 

'  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  more  of  the  Shakesperian.  Tell  me 
what  plays  they  have  read  this  term  ;  and  which  have  been  most 
successful.  I  should  like  to  join  them  again.  If  they  have 
another  play  this  term,  after  the  fifteenth,  I  shall  have  great 
pleasure  in  reading.  If  Wednesday  the  17th  is  a  reading  day,  I 
will  be  there  .  .  .  How  are  they  all  at  home  ?  .  .  . — Believe  me, 
ever  your  affectionate  friend,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  PS. — Ainger  s  last  (quite  private).  One  of  our  men  told  me  the 
other  day  that  he  had  discovered  that  our  classical  lecturer  uses  a 
Translation  in  class.  "Ah,"  I  replied,  "The  ass  knoweth  its 
master's  crib,"  vide  first  lesson  of  last  Sunday  morning.' 

His  wit  had  meanwhile  found  a  fresh  outlet  in  the  new 
University  Magazine. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE    LION 

'A  NEW  magazine  is  about  to  be  started  in  Cambridge.  It  eman- 
ates from  Trinity,  but  is  open  to  contributions  from  the  whole 
University.  Horace  Smith  and  myself  have  been  asked  to  contri- 
bute, and  we  intend  doing  so.' 

So  Avrote  Ainger  in  1858,  and  shortly  after  his  letter  there 
appeared  the  first  number  of  the  Lion.  The  Eofflc,  which  still 
survives  as  the  organ  of  St.  John's  College,  had  hitherto 
been  the  most  prominent  magazine  in  the  University.  But 
the  Lion  had  more  ambitious  aims,  and  the  introductory 
statement  of  its  purposes  took  a  liigh  flight.  It  was  to  fill  a 
need  as  yet  unsatisfied  in  the  University  world ;  it  was  to  be 
earnest  in  tone,  witty  in  expression,  and  Catholic  in  the  topics 
that  it  treated;  no  mere  college  affair,  but  open  to  contributions 
from  all  the  undergraduates  of  Cambridge.  Among  these,  as 
we  saw,  were  some  who,  as  enthusiasts  for  Tennyson  and 
followers  of  Maurice  and  Kingsley,  wished  to  see  religious 
earnestness  united  to  broad  sympathies  and  to  poetic  culture 
— although  culture  for  culture's  sake  was  by  no  means  what 
they  approved  of.  There  were  undergraduates  of  that  time 
who  felt  no  such  limitations,  but  they  were  to  be  found  in  a 
very  different  circle,  the  set  of  brilliant  free-lances  who  'proved 
all  things '  and  held  fast  that  which  was  intellectual.  They 
centred  round  George  Trevelyan  and  Henry  Sidgwick,  and 
were  not  at  all  in  touch  with  the  thought  and  aims  of  the 
Mauricians,  whom  they  looked  upon  as  too  solemn  and  too 
'  Philistine; 

The  most  active  spirit  of  the  first  of  these  two  groups  was, 
perhaps,  H.  R.  Haweis  of  Trinity.  He  it  was  who  originated 
the  Lio7i,  for  which  paper  he  also  wrote;  while  Alfred  Ainger, 

61 


52  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

Horace  Smith,  and  A.  W.  Ward  were  the  chief  among  his 
fellow-contributors.  The  first  number,  which  had  the  '  defects 
of  its  qualities,"*  was  greeted  with  much  laughter  and  some 
youthful  arrogance  from  the  other  party,  nor  did  they  stop 
there.  Almost  at  once  appeared  the  Bear — a  parody  of  the 
Lion,  created  by  George  Trevelyan — a  sparkling  farrago  of 
gifted  fun,  more  effective  than  its  butt,  but  neither  so  mature 
nor  so  interesting.  However,  it  achieved  its  end,  and,  though 
there  was  but  one  number,  it  killed  the  poor  Lion,  which  was 
only  issued  twice  and  died  after  its  second  venture.  Sir  George 
Trevelyan's  D'lonysia  followed  the  Bear,  but  it  lasted  no 
longer  than  its  predecessor,  and  the  brisk  little  battle  between 
the  coteries  was  not  resumed  on  paper.  But  it  has  seemed 
worth  while  to  rescue  from  oblivion  a  few  of  Ainger's  con- 
tributions to  the  dead  Lion  —  his  first-published  study  of 
Shakespeare,  together  Avith  one  or  two  sallies  of  his  humour 
that  appeared  in  its  short-lived  pages.  They  stand  by  them- 
selves and  may  be  given  without  further  comment. 

JACQUES 

A    SHAKESPERIAN    STUDY 

*  The  historians  of  the  present  day  are  busily  engaged  in  setting 
aside  the  verdicts  that  have  been  passed  on  by-gone  characters. 
Mr.  Carlyle  has  found  it  his  mission  to  vindicate  Cromwell : 
Mr.  Froude  is  telling  us  that  Henry  the  Eighth  was  really  not  so 
bad  a  fellow  after  all.  We  have  chosen  our  personage  from  the 
page  of  Shakespeare  and  hope  to  shew  that  the  hero  of  the 
"  Seven  Ages  "  is  not  whiter  than  he  is  painted,  but  blacker — in 
fact,  that  lie  has  won  himself  a  good  name  without  having 
deserved  it. 

'"Mine  be  a  philosopher's  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways," 
says  Tennyson  in  his  last  poem,  perhaps  thinking  of  Jacques  in 
the  forest,  and  adopting  the  most  common  view  of  his  character. 
Mr.  Hallam  speaks  of  the  "  philosophic  melancholy  "  of  Jacques, 
and  this  is  the  quality  for  which  the  world  has  genei'ally  given 
him  credit.  We  shall  take  the  liberty  of  examining  his  claims  to 
our  admiration,  and,  following  the  example  of  modern  sermons, 
divide  our  subject  into  three  heads.  We  have  to  examine  the 
nature  of  the  philosopher's  early  life ;  his  present  disposition,  as 


THE  LION  53 

exliibited  in  his  own  conduct  and  language  ;  and  the   opinion 
entertained  of  him  by  his  "co-mates  and  brothers  in  exile." 

Firstly,  then,  Jacques  has  been  a  courtier.  He  has  passed  all 
his  days  in  the  unwholesome  atmosphere  of  a  Court.  The  petty, 
truckling  nature  of  this  life  is  plainly  declared  by  Touchstone  in 
the  last  act  of  the  play,  and  is  indeed  hinted  in  many  other 
passages.  With  this  training,  and  his  limited  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  he  offers,  when  driven  into  exile,  to  "  cleanse  the 
foul  body  of  the  infected  world,  if  they  will  patiently  receive  his 
medicine."  The  good  Duke,  feeling  the  presumption  of  this 
speech,  says,  "  Fie  on  thee,  I  can  tell  thee  what  thou  wouldst 
do."  "Well,"  says  Jacques,  "what  for  a  counter  would  I  do  but 
good.^"     The  Duke  replies — 

"Most  mischievous  foul  sin  in  chiding;  sin, 
For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine 
As  sensual  as  the  brutish  sting  itself; 
And  all  the  embossed  sores  and  headed  evils, 
Which  thou  with  licence  of  free  foot  hast  caught, 
Wouldst  thou  discharge  into  the  general  world." 

'  Such  then  has  been  the  life  of  Jacques,  before  we  make  his 
acquaintance.  He  is  hardly  a  man,  we  think^  very  well  qualified 
to  instruct  mankind :  unless  indeed,  on  the  principle  that  a 
reformed  drunkard  makes  the  best  apostle  of  temperance,  some 
one  should  urge  that  a  reformed  sensualist  is  calculated  to 
produce  the  best  philosopher,  forgetting  that  a  man  must  have 
many  other  qualifications  before  he  is  fitted  to  teach  his  fellows. 

'If  we  may  judge  Jacques  by  his  words,  we  find  that  every- 
thing he  says  evinces  a  most  intense  selfishness.  It  is  remarkable 
that  Shakespeare  has  made  Jacques  and  his  companions  express 
their  opinion  on  the  same  subjects,  as  if  to  shew  their  distinctive 
difference.  Jacques  offers,  in  his  pettish  manner,  to  "  rail  against 
our  mistress  the  world,  and  all  our  misery."  We  all  know  what 
the  good  Duke  says  on  this  head : 

"  Sweet  are  the  uses  of  Adversity, 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous. 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head." 

And,  as  we  should  expect,  the  Duke  does  not  suit  Jacques  at  all. 
When  one  of  the  lords  tells  Jacques  that  the  Duke  has  been 
seeking  him,  the  philosopher  replies,  "  And  I  have  been  all  this 
day  to  avoid  him.    He  is  too  disputable  for  my  company.    I  think 


54  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

of  as  many  matters  as  he ;  but  I  give  Heaven  thanks  and  make 
no  boast  of  them." 

'When  we  first  read  this  speech  we  are  quite   at   a   loss  to 
understand  it^  for  during  the  short  time  we  have  known  him  the 
Duke  has  as  little  of  the  disputable  in  him  as  any  one  we  can 
imagine.      However,   in   the   next   scene,   when   we    find    how 
thoroughly  the  Duke  knows  Jacques,  and  how  readily  he  tells 
him  his  opinion  of  him,  it  is  easy  to  see  why  Jacques  avoids  his 
company.     In  the  dialogue  between  Jacques  and  Orlando  in  Act 
in.,  when  the  philosopher  proposes  to  sit  down  and  abuse  mankind, 
Orlando  says,  "  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world  but  myself, 
against  whom  I  know  most  faults."     Orlando  goes  on  to  say  that 
he  holds  Jacques  to  be  either  "a  fool  or  a  cypher."    Now  Jacques 
is  not  a  fool.     He  displays  all  those  absurdities  into  which  an 
overweening  conceit  leads  a  man,  but  he  has  withal  a  quick  and 
brilliant  fancy.     I  mention  this  because  many  will  say  that  the 
celebrated  speech  of  "  the  Seven  Ages  of  Man,"  and  the  apos- 
trophe of  the  wounded  stag,  are  inconsistent  with  the  character 
as  we  have  interpreted  it.     Now,  the  first  of  these  speeches  is 
merely  a  burst  of  fancy,  which  might  have  been  delivered  by 
Mercutio  when  in  a  serious  vein  (if  that  chronic  wit  ever  had 
a  sober  interval).     Indeed,  we  think  that  the  "Seven  Ages"  is 
remarkably  indicative  of  the  mind  of  the  speaker.     It  is  purely 
sensual.     It  does  not  turn  upon  the  development   of  mind  and 
character  in  the  growing  man ;  it  contains  no  hidden  philosophy 
on    the    weakness    and    failings   of  humanity ;    but    the    idea    is 
expressed  merely  in  a  series  of  pictures  of  external  life,  as  they 
occur  to   the  eye  of  the   speaker.      We  see   that   it  would  be 
incorrect  in  the  mouth  of  any  other  moralist  or  wit  in  Shakespeare. 
The  second  of  the  episodes  we  have  alluded  to,  viz,  the  "  Wounded 
Stag"  we  cannot  detach  from  our  view  of  Jacques'    character. 
When  he  says,  "  thus  misery  does  part  the  flux  of  company  "  ;  and 
afterwards  as  "the  careless  herd  full  of  the  pasture  jumps  along 
by  him,  and  never  stays  to  greet  him  "  :  when  he  adds,  "  Sweep 
on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens,  'tis  just  the  fashion  ;  whei'cfore 
do  you  look  upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ?"  all  this 
seems  to  us  (perhaps  we  are  wrong)  only  another  reflection  upon 
himself ;  another  murmur  at  his  own  misery,  at  being  forced  into 
exile.     And  then  he  winds  up  with  some  mawkish,  false  senti- 
mentalism  about  the  tyranny  of  the  exiles  in  the  forest  in  killing 
the  deer  for  food.     Depend  upon  it,  that  if  his  friends  in  the 
forest  of  Arden  had  acted  upon  this  suggestion,  Jacques  would 


THE  LION  55 

have  been  the  first  to  grumble  when  he  sat  down  to  dinner,  and 
found  no  venison  on  the  bill  of  fare.  It  will  be  seen  that  we  are 
determined  to  take  away  all  reality  from  the  man,  when  we  say 
that  there  are  very  evident  proofs  that  the  melancholy  of  Jacques 
is  assumed.  In  the  first  place,  constitutional  melancholy — 
hypochondria — is  a  disease  for  which  a  man  deserves  the  sincerest 
pity.  If  this  were  Jacques'  affliction,  we  should  not  find  his 
friends  twitting  him  with  it,  nor  Jacques  himself  boasting  of  it. 
When  Jacques,  in  a  very  offensive  manner,  is  calling  on  Amiens, 
to  "sing  more,  I  pr'ythee,  more!"  Amiens  (we  can  fancy  him 
with  a  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eye)  says,  "  It  will  make  you 
melancholy.  Monsieur  Jacques."  The  hypochondriac  replies,  "  I 
think  it :  more,  I  pry'thee,  more :  I  can  suck  melancholy  out  of 
a  song  as  a  weasel  sucks  eggs  ;  more,  I  pr'ythee,  more."  Again, 
in  a  scene  to  which  we  have  alluded,  Jacques  says,  "  Farewell, 
good  Signior  Love,"  and  Orlando  retorts,  "^^  Adieu,  good  Monsieur 
Melancholy."  Now  Orlando  is  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
ridicule  a  man  for  a  natural  infirmity.  In  Act  iv.  Scene  i. 
Rosalind  says,  "They  say  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow."  (Jacq.) 
"lam:  I  do  love  it  better  than  laughing."  (Ros.)  "Those  that 
are  in  extremity  of  either  are  abominable  fellows,  and  betray 
themselves  to  every  modern  censure,  worse  than  drunkards." 
(Jacq.)  "  Why,  'tis  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing."  (Ros.) 
"Why  then  'tis  good  to  be  a  post." 

'  Rosalind  detects  him  immediately. 

'  We  are  convinced  that  this  humour  is  put  on  to  attract  notice, 
and  increase  his  reputation  for  contemplative  habits.  All  who 
have  been  any  time  in  his  company  detect  his  real  nature  and 
are  continually  aiming  hits  at  his  assumed  character. 

'  We  have  been  told  that  it  is  a  noble  and  disinterested  act,  to 
leave  the  forest  when  happiness  is  restored  to  the  exiles,  to  attend 
upon  Duke  Frederick.  In  the  last  act,  Jacques  says  to  Jacques 
de  Bois,  "  Sir,  by  your  patience,  if  I  heard  you  rightly,  the  Duke 
hath  put  on  a  religious  life  and  thrown  into  neglect  the  pomp  of 
court."  (J.  DE  Bois)  "He  hath."  (Jacq.)  "To  him  will  I:  out 
of  these  convertites  there  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learnt." 
As  much  as  to  say,  (the  ruling  passion  strong  to  the  last),  "  You 
see,  good  people,  I  never  lose  a  chance  of  increasing  my  wisdom 
under  any  circumstances.  I  am  extremely  sorry  to  leave  you, 
but  friendship  must  be  sacrificed  to  the  acquisition  of  knowledge." 
But  there  is  another  reason  for  his  leaving  the  joyous  party.  He 
will  be  quite  out  of  place  if  he  remains.     The  Duke  and  all  his 


56  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

friends  are  restored  to  liberty  and  happiness  :  they  are  all  in  the 
merriest  spirits,  and  are  about^  as  the  Duke  says^  "to  fall  into 
their  rustic  revelry."  What  has  Jacques  to  do  there  ?  He  must 
either  throw  off  his  melancholy  and  become  cheerful,  (which  will 
only  bring  him  into  contempt),  or  stay  and  look  glumpy  in  a 
corner  while  the  others  are  glad  and  happy.  It  is  clear  he  has 
no  business  there.  He  can  expect  no  sympathy.  He  has  kept 
himself  aloof  from  his  companions  in  misfortune,  and  he  cannot 
hope  that  they  will  give  him  a  cordial  welcome  now.  So  he 
sneaks  away  and  tries  to  do  it  in  a  dignified  iTianner.  There  is  a 
pleasant  retributive  justice  in  this,  which  is  very  satisfactory  to 
those  who  hold  Jacques  in  the  same  contempt  as  we  do. 

'Lastly,  we  should  seek  for   the  purpose  of  Shakespeare  in 
delineating  the  character.     Of  the  unreal  and  the  ingenuine,  the 
great  poet  had  a  hatred  which  may  be  traced  in  every  one  of  his 
works.     An  affectation  by  a  person  of  what  he  is  not  or  has  not, 
is  what  he   is  continually  holding   up   to  ridicule.     It  is,  as  we 
believe,    the   sham   philosopher — one   of  the   most    pitiful    and 
mischievous  of  these  shams  (to  use  Mr.  Carlyle's  word),  which  is 
here  exposed.    There  is  no  doubt  that  in  the  time  of  Shakespeare, 
as  in  our  own,  there  wei*e  many  of  these  professors.     The  reputa- 
tion of  a  philosopher,  the  highest  and  noblest  fame,  if  true,  that  a 
man  can  enjoy,  is  often  gained  more  easily  and  on  slighter  grounds 
than  any  other.      A  man,  if  he  has  only  sufficient  talent   and 
discretion  to  remain  consistent,  has  only  to  assume  a  melancholy 
despondency,  like  Jacques,  and  "rail  at  our  mistress  the  world," 
and  he  is  looked  up  to  by  a  large  body  of  his  fellow-men  as  a 
philosopher.      He  says  by  his  conduct  what  is  equivalent  to  this  : 
"  I  see  clearly  the  evil  of  man's  nature — I  hate  it,  as  evil  must  be 
hated — I  cannot  but  despise  my  fellows  who  are  so  depraved  : 
therefore  I  think  it  better  to  keep  myself  apart,  and  look  on 
in  pity  from  a  distance." 

'  This  man  is  not  a  philosopher — he  is  as  widely  different  from 
a  philosopher  as  possible.  If  a  man  see  this,  it  is  his  duty  to 
combat  with  the  evil,  and  strive  to  bring  down  fresh  light  from 
Heaven  to  those  who  are  struggling  in  the  dark.  No  man  can 
remain  neutral  in  the  battle  of  life.  Every  one  has  a  part  to  play 
in  the  multitude,  and  woe  to  him  if  he  seek  to  walk  alone.  It 
has  been  written,  "They  who  have  retired  from  the  world,  as 
though  blaming  God  for  sending  them  into  it,  have  all,  ere  long, 
experienced  the  falsity  of  their  ideal  repose  by  the  wars  and 
fightings  within."     It  is  a  platitude  to  say  that  men  cannot  go  on 


THE  LION  57 

without  moving ;  but  the  man  who  determines  to  perform  life's 
journey  alone,  without  the  assistance  of  those  influences  which 
develope  his  moral  being,  has  as  much  chance  of  attaining  final 
perfection,  as  the  dew-drop  on  the  mountain  of  reaching  the 
ocean  without  union  with  the  stream.  The  drop  may  become 
impure — the  man  contaminated ;  but  there  is  no  possibility  of 
attaining  the  desired  end  without  union  with  others.  This  lesson 
is  taught  us  by  nature  and  our  own  hearts,  confirmed  by  His 
authority,  who  prays  for  his  loved  ones,  "  not  that  they  should  be 
taken  from  the  world,  but  that  they  should  be  kept  from  the 
evil." 

'  Touchstone  is  much  more  a  philosopher  than  Jacques.  Besides 
that  beneath  his  satire  there  often  underlie  deep  truths,  he  has 
many  virtues.  He  is  faithful,  charitable,  and  unselfish.  He  leaves 
the  quiet  and  comfort  of  home  to  accompany  his  mistress  in  her 
exile.  He  finds  his  pedestrian  journey  irksome  and  fatiguing, 
but  his  spirits  never  desert  him  though  "his  legs  are  weary." 
"Travellers,"  he  says,  "must  be  content."  His  last  act  is  to 
marry  a  coarse  untaught  country  girl,  because  she  has  honesty, 
"  like  your  pearl  in  your  foul  oyster  !  " 

'The  whole  purpose  of  this  delightful  play  seems  to  be,  to 
shew  the  contrast  of  love  and  nature  with  jealousy,  hatred  and 
artifice.  We  almost  lose  sight  of  the  latter  in  the  abundance  of 
the  former. 

'The  tyranny  of  the  usurping  Duke,  and  the  unnatural  cruelty 
of  Oliver  are  forgotten  in  the  new  element  that  we  breathe  when 
we  are  released  from  the  court — forgotten  in  the  touching  attach- 
ment of  old  Adam — in  the  affection  of  the  two  cousins,  Rosalind 
and  Celia — in  the  faithfulness  of  the  fool,  who  will  follow  o'er  the 
wide  world  with  his  mistress — in  the  generous  spirit  and  modest 
firmness  of  Orlando — in  the  charity  and  true  philosophy  of  the 
exiled  Duke — in  the  rustic  honesty  of  Corin,  whose  code  of  morals 
seems  sound  enough  for  most  purposes  though  he  is  in  danger  of 
damnation  for  never  having  been  to  court.  "  Sir,  I  am  a  true 
labourer,  I  earn  that  I  eat,  get  that  I  wear,  owe  no  man  hate, 
envy  no  man's  happiness,  glad  of  other  men's  good,  content  with 
my  harm,  and  the  greatest  of  my  pride  is  to  see  my  ewes  graze 
and  my  lambs  suck." 

'  Another  cause  of  the  great  charm  of  As  You  Like  It  arises  from 
the  scene  in  which  it  is  laid.  It  is  summer  time,  and  we  are  on 
the  greensward,  under  the  rustling  trees,  in  almost  every  scene. 
The  play  opens  in  an  orchard — then  we  are  on  the  lawn  before 


58  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

the  Duke's  palace — and  in  the  second  act  we  are  let  loose  in  the 
forest  among  the  deer.  The  effect  is  rendered  more  pleasing  by 
our  being  now  and  then  reluctantly  brought  back  to  "  a  room  in 
the  Palace,"  to  listen  to  a  few  unpleasant  remarks  from  Duke 
Frederick,  but  from  which  we  only  fly  back  with  the  greater 
delight  to  roam  in  the  Forest  of  Arden,  where  the  noon-day  sun 
is  loitering  down  through  thick  foliage,  and  flecking  with  light 
and  shade  the  green  turf  beneath. 


OUR   PRIZE  ESSAYISTS 
The  Life  and  Times  of  Smith,  by  J.  Brown 

By  Lord  M. 

'  The  appearance  of  this  work  is  much  to  be  lamented.  The 
author  is  not,  as  far  as  we  know,  naturally  unfitted  for  his  task. 
His  sentiments  are  just  and  profound.  His  style  is  generally 
accurate  and  pleasing.  But  the  subject  is  one  which  demands 
the  most  patient  and  laborious  research.  Mr.  Brown  is  well 
known  as  a  gentleman  of  respectable  talents.  But  this  research 
he  has  not  thought  fit  to  give. 

'  Smith  was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  greatest  men  of  his  day. 
There  is  as  little  doubt  that  Mr.  Brown  has  made  him  appear  one 
of  the  least.  The  biographer  has  evidently  been  overcome  by 
the  difficulties  of  his  task.  He  has  endeavoured  to  reconcile 
what  a  more  acute  man  would  have  seen  the  impossibility  of 
reconciling.  There  are  some  men,  to  attempt  to  harmonise  whose 
character,  is  to  take  away  that  character  altogether.  Smith's 
character  is  a  riddle.  This  riddle  will  in  all  human  probability 
never  be  guessed.  But  it  certainly  will  never  be  solved  by 
straining  that  character  in  the  method  adopted  by  our  author. 

'  There  probably  never  lived  a  man  whose  physical  and  intel- 
lectual anomalies  were  more  striking  than  the  subject  of  this 
biography.  It  would  seem  indeed  as  if  nature  had  formed  him  in 
one  of  her  most  capricious  humours.  She  had  gifted  him  with 
the  intellect  of  a  Newton  and  the  superstition  of  a  Loo-Choo 
Islander.  He  was  accustomed  to  go  down  to  the  Royal  Society 
and  remove  in  ten  minutes  a  difficulty  which  had  baffled  the 
researches  of  the  most  eminent  chemists,  since  chemistry  was 
first  a  science.  He  would  leave  the  meeting  and  hasten  to  an  old 
woman  in  Bethnal  Green  who  professed  to  remove  warts  by  in- 
cantations.    In  an  age  when  the  fine  arts  were  encouraged  more 


THE  LION  59 

than  they  have  ever  been  before  or  since,  no  chambers  in  Europe 
were  more  profusely  adorned  than  his,  with  the  masterpieces  of 
Titian,  the  carvings  of  De  Burghem,  and  the  living  marbles  of 
Leonardo  Chizzello.  Yet  it  is  notorious  that  he  preferred  the 
inanities  of  M'Twaddler  to  the  serene  majesty  of  a  Milton,  and 
would  never  open  Homer  while  he  could  peruse  the  jingling 
doggrel  of  Watts.  We  are  ashamed  to  mention  a  fact  which  is  as 
well  known  as  the  avarice  of  Penn,  or  the  ravings  of  Fox.  Yet 
Mr.  Brown  tells  us  that  "  his  indulgence  to  the  compositions  of 
second-rate  poets  strikingly  displays  the  goodness  of  his  heart."  ^ 

'  Nor  were  the  peculiarities  of  Smith's  person  less  remarkable 
than  those  of  his  mind.  His  form  was  of  that  perfect  loveliness 
which  drew  every  eye  to  him  as  he  walked  in  the  sunny  lanes  of 
Grimfield.  We  are  told  that  he  squinted  so  horribly  as  to  drive 
many  persons  in  disgust  from  his  presence.  Mr.  Brown  cannot 
believe  this  at  all.  "  He  had,"  he  says,  "a  slight  cast  in  his  eye, 
which  was  rather  attractive  than  otherwise."  All  our  readers 
have  heard  of  the  lover,  whose  mistress  was  blessed  with  a  similar 
deformity,  and  who  could  never  afterwards  endure  an  eye,  of 
which  the  vision  was  not  distorted.  Mr.  Brown  may  possibly 
share  this  feeling.  But  the  truth  is  that  he  has  polished  and 
rounded  his  subject  till  he  has  polished  and  rounded  it  away  to 
nothing. 

'We  wish  we  could  say  that  this  is  the  worst  defect  in  Mr. 
Brown's  work.  But  the  fact  is  that  on  those  points  with  which 
the  biographer  of  Smilh  should  be  best  acquainted,  he  is  pro- 
foundly ignorant.  Smith's  researches  into  Turkish  literature  will 
live  as  long  as  the  English  language.  Yet  it  will  hardly  be 
believed  that  Mr.  Brown's  ignorance  is  such  that  he  repeatedly 
uses  "  Jabbajee  "  and '^  Jabbajoy  "  as  synonymous  terms.  Every 
school-girl  now  reads  the  koran,  and  the  first-form  boy  who  made 
such  a  blunder  would  well  deserve  to  be  thrashed  within  an  inch 
of  his  life.  The  biogi-apher  or  historian  who  is  unacquainted  with 
his  subject  has  only  one  course  opei^  to  him.  If  he  cannot  exhibit 
his  knowledge,  he  should  at  least  be  able  to  conceal  his  ignorance. 
It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  Mr.  Brown  injures  his  reputation 
more  by  venturing  opinions  on  points  of  which  he  may  be  sup- 
posed to  be  ignorant,  than  by  displaying  his  deficiencies  on  those 
of  which  he  is  bound  to  be  informed.  Thus  Mr.  Brown  draws 
illustrations  from  the  history  of  all  countries  and  all  ages,  and 
exhibits  a  want  of  common  information,  or  common  care,  that 

'  I.  43. 


60  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

would  disgrace  a  child  of  thirteen.  The  illustrations  are  not  good 
in  themselves.  They  have  the  additional  disadvantage  of  being 
in  almost  all  cases  untrue.  It  is  certain  that  they  are  not  needed, 
and  we  have  sought  in  vain  a  reason  for  their  introduction.  No 
doubt  Mr.  Brown  thinks  with  honest  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek,  that 
if  he  has  "no  exquisite  reason  for  it,  he  has  reason  good  enough." 
'  We  here  lay  aside  the  book  with  very  different  feelings  from 
those  with  which  we  took  it  up.  The  life  of  Smith  has  yet  to  be 
written.  The  next  writer  who  girds  himself  up  for  the  labour 
must  do  so  in  a  far  different  spirit.  He  may  learn  from  the 
present  volume  that  he  has  no  chance  of  success,  unless  he  resolve 
to  exhibit  definitely  those  extraordinary  features  by  force  of  which 
Smith  towers  high  above  the  worthies  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
By  endeavouring  to  bring  them  all  into  harmony,  Mr.  Brown  has 
left  upon  his  pages  a  pleasing,  but  nevertheless  an  ideal  portrait 
of  his  hero.  It  is  as  if  an  historical  artist  should  set  himself  to 
shade  down  the  brow  of  Michael  Angelo,  the  nose  of  Gray,  or  the 
crane's  neck  of  Mr.  Pitt.  The  portrait  may  be  more  graceful — 
but  what  it  gains  in  grace  it  will  lose  in  truth.' 

Poetry  by  R.  W.  E. 

'  Every  poet  is  a  new  edition  of  the  Universe.  Not  as  one 
would  say  a  microcosm,  but  a  yet  undiscovered  Infinite.  I  can 
bathe  in  his  splendour  as  of  a  new  sun.  He  is  else  none  of  poets. 
He  is  a  kaleidoscope  else,  not  a  telescope.  We  know  the  poet 
when  we  see  him.  Moses,  Voltaire,  Socrates,  Confucius,  were 
not  otherwise.  They  are  not  Broadway  shop-windows.  I  ripen 
in  their  light — sun  that  warms  me — atmosphere  that  gives  me 
life — vegetable  that  feeds  me — indicate  the  genuineness  of  the 
produce.     The  poet  lives,  therefore,  in  as  far  as  he  exists. 

'  Each  new  w'orld  is  free  to  all  comers,  but  one  has  not  of 
consequence  the  rights  of  citizenship.  I  may  accept  a  ticket  for 
a  morning  concert  though  I  be  deaf.  Melesigenes  is  under  a 
passport  system.  We  may  wander,  like  Odusseus,  through  many 
cities  and  yet  hold  no  converse.  George  Chapman  says  of  those 
who  failed  to  naturalise  Homer — 

"  They  failed  to  search  his  deep  and  treasurous  heart. 
The  cause  was  since  they  wanted  the  fit  key 
Of  nature  in  their  downright  strength  of  art, 
With  poesy  to  open  poesy." 

'  Again,  your  true  poet  is  not  a  creator  merely,  but  a  destroyer. 
He  is  an  elixir  vitse,  but  also  a  stomach-pump.     He  must  clean 


THE  LION  61 

the  palate  before  he  recruits  with  the  new  wine — then  I  leap  for 
joy — then  I  am  godlike.  From  that  day  I  am  in  a  serener 
climate. 

'  When  we  read  poetry  we  are  become  for  the  time  the  poet. 
We  cannot  do  without  it.  Wc  are  become  incorporate  with  the 
new  type.  We  are  henceforth  a  new  being.  We  have  cast  the 
shell.  We  are  become  lobsters.  I  find  nothing  more  divine  in 
me  than  this.  I  am  under  a  law  of  poetical  growth.  When  my 
soul  has  reached  its  farthest  horizon,  the  barriers  crumble  away 
and  I  shall  enter  on  the  perfect  prospect.  Tree,  wall,  house,  city, 
landscape  are  numbered  in  the  holier  empyrean,  and  shall  be 
hung  with  amaranth  and  jasper.' 


CHAPTER   IV 

BEGINNINGS   OF   LIFE 

It  was  through  the  Lion  that  Ainger  was  first  brought  into 
personal  contact  with  the  Macmillans,  a  literary  event  which 
had  far  more  lasting  results  on  his  career  than  any  of  his  first 
publications.  That  memorable  man,  Alexander  Macmillan, 
was  then  the  sole  head  of  the  firm  and  his  famous  shop  was  in 
Trinity  Street.  Alfred  has  himself  recorded  the  beginnings 
of  that  friendship,  which  was  afterwards  to  mean  so  much  to 
him,  both  as  a  writer  and  an  individual. 

'  Being  of  a  bookish  disposition^  I  had  been  from  my  Freshman's 
term  a  haunter  of  the  shop  in  Trinity  Street  ...  I  remember 
well  Mr.  Macmillan  addressing  me  in  friendly  words  on  the 
strength  (if  I  remember  rightly)  of  a  paper  I  had  written  in  one 
of  those  university  magazines,  which  in  each  successive  generation 
of  undergraduates  "  come  like  shadows/'  and  in  a  year  or  two  "  so 
depart."  He  had  been  struck  with  something  in  the  paper^  and 
out  of  the  conversation  thus  begun  arose  a  friendship  I  do  not 
hesitate  to  call  one  of  the  most  valuable  and  valued  of  my  life. 
...  As  early  as  1855  the  name  of  Frederick  Maurice  was  closely 
associated  with  the  young  firm,  Kingsley's  Westward  Ho!  in  its 
original  three-volumed  form  appeared  in  that  year,  and  by  1857 
had  reached  a  third  edition ;  and  in  the  same  year  the  firm 
achieved  what  Alexander  Macmillan  always  called  his  first  great 
popular  success  in  Tom  Brown's  School-days.  .  .  .  The  acquain- 
tance I  thus  formed  with  Alexander  at  this  juncture  speedily 
passed  into  something  like  intimacy,  and  not  long  after  I  was 
welcomed  by  the  family  circle  at  the  house  in  Trinity  Street,  in 
the  lower  portion  of  which  the  business  was  carried  on.  The 
household  consisted  of  Alexander  Macmillan,  his  wife  and  four 
young  children,  and  his  brother's  widow  with  her  own  four 
children,  whom  Alexander  had  promptly  adopted  on  the  death  of 
their  father,  making  of  them  one  family  with  his  own,  until  they 
were  married  or  otherwise  established  in  life  elsewhere.  The 
impression  of  those  Cambridge  days,  from  1858  to  I860,  is  still 

62 


BEGINNINGS  OF  LIFE  63 

singularly  fresh  and  full  of  charm  to  the  present  writer — the 
absolute  unity  in  affection  and  purpose  of  this  twofold  family,  and 
(if  it  may  be  said  without  offence)  the  total  absence  in  the  head  of 
the  household  of  even  the  consciousness  that  he  was  doing  any- 
thing exceptional  or  out  of  the  way.  .  .  . 

'  He  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  perception  of  what  con- 
stituted excellence  in  a  new  book,  irrespective  of  his  own 
sympathies.  I  do  not  suppose  he  would  ever  have  made  an 
infallible  critic,  in  the  literary  sense  of  the  word.  The  deficiencies 
of  his  earlier  training  forbade  it.  He  had  not  the  full  equipment 
of  a  critic.  But  intellectual  insight  seems  to  be  given  to  some 
men  in  ways  and  through  channels  other  than  those  of  the  critic 
whose  judgment  has  been  formed  by  the  careful  measuring  of 
writer  against  writer.  Alexander  Macmillan's  power  may  have 
been  instinctive,  mysterious  even  to  himself;  but  the  intellectual 
gi'asp  he  undoubtedly  possessed,  and  the  early  successes  of  the 
firm,  especially  at  the  time  when  he  was  his  own  "reader,"  must 
have  been  due  to  his  almost  unerring  perception  of  the  real  quality 
of  a  new  writer.  .  .  . 

*  I  well  remember  taking  a  Sunday  walk  with  him  at  Cambridge 
in  the  first  few  months  of  our  friendship,  and  his  repeating  from 
memory  the  then  little-known  stanzas  of  Tennyson  addressed  to 
Bulwer  Lytton  that  had  appeared  in  Punch.  ...  It  might  be  truly 
said  of  Alexander  Macmillan  that,  with  all  his  literary  instinct 
and  consequent  sagacity,  he  had  that  rarer  thing,  the  deep  literary 
heart ;  and  no  man  ever  more  clearly  understood  the  essential 
distinction  between  literature  and  books.  .  .  .  No  one  could  share 
his  hospitality  and  sojourn  under  his  roof  without  discovering  the 
large  nature  of  the  man,  his  generosity,  his  kindness  and  thought- 
fulness  for  servants  and  dependants,  his  pity  and  helpfulness  for 
all  of  them  when  in  trouble.  The  recollection  of  his  own  early 
poverty  and  struggle  seemed  a  perpetual  fountain  of  sympathy 
within  him.  And  it  had  the  natural  and  happy  result  of  evoking 
in  return  the  intensest  loyalty  and  affection  from  all  who  served 
him,  whether  in  his  home  or  in  his  business.  Thus  it  was,  too, 
that  he  secured  an  extraordinary  influence  over  their  characters, 
stimulating  and  bringing  out  the  best  that  was  in  them.  .  .  . 
Enthusiasm,  a  passionate  belief  in  the  writers  he  loved,  quickness 
of  perception  and  shrewdness  of  judgment  had  their  correspon- 
ding side  of  impatience  and  intolerance  of  opposition.  But  his 
heat  in  argument  was  never  but  for  the  moment,  and  no  one  ever 
lived  less  capable  of  bearing  a  grudge.' 


64  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

The  large,  warm-hearted  being  sketched  here,  made,  as  it 
were,  a  cheering  hearth  for  talent,  often  obscure  and  unrecog- 
nised, that  was  then  rising  on  the  horizon — thus  filling 
a  place  which  it  would  now  be  hard  to  fill.  To  Ainger,  as  to  so 
many  others,  he  gave  the  encouragement  and  confidence  which 
helped  the  right  growth  of  his  gifts,  and  in  his  case  they 
were  personal,  as  well  as  literary  ones.  The  appreciation  he 
found  in  the  Macmillan  household  fostered  his  wit  and  his 
acting  powers,  and  those  who  heard  him  speak  in  after  days 
of  that  circle,  of  the  friendship  which  grew  up  with  each  of 
its  younger  members,  could  not  fail  to  recognise  the  part  they 
played  in  moulding  his  career — as  his  publishers,  still  more 
as  his  appreciators.  There  was,  they  were  wont  to  say  later, 
no  family  event  of  theirs,  whether  birth,  marriage,  or  death, 
in  which  he  did  not  play  a  part,  and  in  their  magazine  it  was 
that  his  first  mature  efforts  appeared. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  Avorking  hard  at  his  special  subject, 
Law,  but  he  was  not  strong  enough  to  read  for  honours  and 
only  took  an  ordinary  Law  degree. 

'"I  am  glad,"  he  writes  to  William  Elderton  in  June  1859, 
"  to  have  got  my  first  class  Poll  which  I  did  not  expect.  I  heard 
yesterday  from  a  friend  at  Cambridge  (Jack  of  Peterhouse)  that  I 
am  second  in  the  first  class." 

It  was  in  November  of  this  same  year  that  his  father  died. 
The  event  affected  his  life  deeply  ;  it  was  not  only  his  first 
great  sorrow,  but  it  swayed  his  whole  course  and  his  choice  of 
a  vocation.  A  waiting  profession  like  the  Law  became 
impossible,  and  the  thought  of  the  Church  which  had  not 
ceased  to  haunt  and  attract  him,  assumed  a  definite  shape. 
The  uncertainty  as  to  what  he  ought  to  do  oppressed  him 
heavily,  and  his  old  friend,  Richard  Browne,  who  about  now 
visited  him  at  Cambridge,  found  him  plunged  in  deep  dejec- 
tion, partly  of  grief,  partly  of  doubt.  There  is  some  irony 
in  the  fact  that  at  this  critical  moment  he  consulted  his 
former  tutor,  Leslie  Stephen,  as  to  the  advisability  of  taking 
orders  and  that  his  counsellor  advised  him  to  do  so.  But 
whatever  fears  Alfred  entertained  were  fears  about  his  own 


BEGINNINGS   OF   LIFE  65 

unworthiness,  not  about  the  merits  of  the  Church  as  a  voca- 
tion or  his  earnest  desire  for  it.  It  had,  perhaps,  never  been 
so  attractive  as  then.  The  visible  proof  given  by  Kingsley, 
Robertson,  and  Maurice  of  what  individuals  could  effect  for 
it — the  need  of  the  best  men  to  follow  in  their  steps  and 
replace  the  inferior  spirits  who  had  entered  it  for  inferior 
motives — these  were  reasons  that  weighed  largely  with  Ainger. 
And  it  was  really  the  influence  of  Maurice,  and  no  personal 
advice,  which  finally  determined  him  to  be  ordained.  'I  owe 
everything  to  Maurice,'  he  used  to  say  in  later  days,  and  he 
never  regretted  his  decision. 

There  are  those  who  assume  that  his  taking  Orders  was 
almost  an  accident  of  circumstances,  the  result  of  conventional 
acquiescence  in  the  need  of  a  suitable  career.  But  this  is 
very  far  from  the  truth,  for  wit  and  man  of  letters  though 
he  was,  he  was,  before  all  else,  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of 
England. 

He   was   always  more   of  a  minister  than  a  priest.     The 
argument  of  authority,  the  glamour  of  ecclesiastical  tradition 
had   little   power   over   him.     He   felt   something  very  near 
prejudice  against  any  pronounced  form  of  Ritualism,  and  if 
his    position   had   to   be   defined,   we    should    say    that   he 
belonged  to  the  old  Evangelical  School — of  a  day  when  its 
most   marked   characteristic   was   a   deep    but    unaggressive 
piety.      This  attitude  of  mind  harmonised  with  the  Broad 
Church  views  of  that  time,  the  views  of  F.  D.  Maurice ;  on 
the   other  hand,   he  was   not  of  the  Broad  Church  in  the 
modern   acceptance  of  the  term,  and    the    latitude  of  view 
that  it  admits  would  never  have  had  his  sanction.     For,  from 
beginning  to  end,  he  seems  never  to  have  entertained  a  doubt 
concerning   orthodox  Christianity.      From    all    such   doubts, 
from    all    speculation   and    criticism,  from   modern    scientific 
thought,    he    turned    away    with    a    strong     distaste    that 
amounted  to  distress.     Religion  founded  on  orthodox  belief — 
a  very  diff'erent  thing  to  dogmatism — was  to  him  the  only 
working  method  of  existence.     His  Huguenot  ancestors  had 
left  him  an  inheritance  :  he  was  throughout  life  possessed  by 
a  deep  conviction  of  sin,  a  conviction  which,  disclosed  in  his 

E 


66  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

private  utterances,  was  almost  as  strong  as  Dr.  Johnson's.  The 
personal  attitude  towards  Christ,  the  Christian  Revelation,  with 
its  sense  of  reconcilement,  were  a  necessity  to  him,  and  this 
necessity  was,  in  his  eyes,  evidence  beyond  which  he  felt  no  need 
to  travel.  Individual  in  religion  as  in  everything  else,  when 
once  he  had  found  what  suited  him  he  kept  it,  with  a  pure 
unshaken  faith  that  endured,  or  rather  ignored,  every  shock 
that  might  assail  it.  '  A  clergyman  is,  at  the  best,  a  man  in 
blinkers.  He  must  not  receive  any  lateral  impressions,'  so  he 
wrote  in  his  private  notebook,  in  the  autumn  of  this  same 
year ;  and  the  candid,  almost  naif  phrase  sums  up  his  position, 
both  in  its  strength  and  in  its  weakness.  In  matters  of 
thought  he  was,  indeed,  more  practical  than  he  was  imagina- 
tive, more  spiritual  than  intellectual.  Like  all  truly  religious 
natures,  he  felt  that  the  appeal  of  faith  was  to  the  heart,  not  to 
the  head,  and  in  that  belief  he  was  perhaps  too  willing  to  put 
aside  the  demands  of  the  mind.  However  much  the  idea  of 
taking  Orders  had  existed  at  the  back  of  his  thoughts,  he  had 
not  found  it  possible  to  talk  of  it,  and  the  decision  came  as  a 
great  surprise  to  his  family.  Soon  after  he  had  announced 
it  to  them — in  1860 — he  wrote  about  his  views  to  a  cousin, 
Marianne  Nicol,  with  whom  he  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  : — 

'  It  gave  me  great  pleasure  to  find  that  my  final  choice  of  a 
profession  did  not  altogether  surprise  you  .  .  .  You  are  right  in 
supposing  that  it  is  no  sudden  freak.  It  is  a  subject  that  has 
always  been  lying  open  before  me  for  some  years  and  which,  when 
I  came  lately  to  regard  it  as  a  definite  possibility,  assumed  a  more 
favourable  look  the  more  I  reflected  on  it.  If  I  cannot  hope  (as 
who  could),  that  I  have  the  best  qualifications  for  the  office,  I 
certainly  think  that  in  the  secular  necessaries  for  it  I  am  at  least 
as  well  qualified  as  many  men — for  I  have  had  some  practice  in 
reading,  writing,  and  speaking.  I  think  that,  regarding  it  on 
this  lower  ground,  the  Church  is  the  profession  most  suited  to  my 
disposition.  When  I  come  to  speak  of  the  higher  qualifica- 
tions I  can  only  speak  (as,  my  dear  Marianne,  we  all  must),  with 
shame  and  diffidence.  I  have,  and  always  have  had,  very 
strong  views  on  the  duties  of  a  clergyman.  I  have  always  thought 
that  that  immense  machinery  which  our  clergy  set  in  motion  . . 
does  not  produce  an  effect  proportionate  to  its   magnitude,     I  M 


/ 


BEGINNINGS  OF  LIFE  67 

think  the  clergyman  often  alienates  where  he  might  conciliate, 
/  and  I  firmly  believe  that  if  every  one  of  them  was  sensible  and 
kind,  there  would  not  be  many  dissenters  left  in  England  soon. 
And  the  effective  power  of  the  Church  of  England  would  be 
thereby  enhanced  to  an  indefinite  extent. 

'  I  dare  say  there  are  many  points,  my  dear  cousin,  on  which 
you  and  I  won't  agree.  I  think  there  are  some  on  which  you 
would  think  me  quite  unorthodox.  But  I  know  of  no  points 
which  debar  me  from  preaching  the  doctrines  of  the  Church  with 
sincerity.  "What  are  the  little  things  we  fight  for,"  says  Arch- 
bishop Leighton,  "compared  with  the  great  things  of  God?" 
There  is  so  much  to  do  in  the  Church,  about  which  no  one  could 
doubt,  that  it  little  matters  differing  on  points  which  concern  no 
man's  relation  to  his  Maker. 

'  There  is  no  point  I  feel  stronger  on  than  the  divinity  of 
/  Christ,  being  convinced  that  with  it,  Christianity  must  live  or 
!    perish. 

'  If  the  Saviour  of  men  were  not  identical  with  their  Creatoi",  I 
see  no  help  in  the  Cross  for  the  suffering  millions  of  the  world. 
The  doctrine  of  doctrities  that  men  need  to  learn  and  take  to  heart 
is  this — that  the  only  thing  that  alienates  them  from  God  is  sin 
— that  each  man  among  us  has  a  right,  by  his  brotherhood  with 
Christ,  to  claim  his  position  as  a  child  of  God — and  that  there  is 
nothing  but  his  own  disobedience  that  keeps  him  from  his  true 
position. 

'  Please  do  not  show  this  to  any  one.  .  .  . 

'  I  hope  to  see  you  soon  in  town — till  then  goodbye,  and 
believe  me  to  be,  Ever  your  affectionate  cousin, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

It  was  about  this  time  that  William  Elderton  was  also 
thinking  of  Orders,  and  the  following  letters  on  the  subject 
throw  further  light  on  Ainger's  own  feeling  and  follow 
fittingly  on  the  last  one  : — 

'  1859. 

*  I  was  a  little  perplexed  and  surprised  by  what  you  said  to 
me  on  Sunday  on  the  subject  of  your  taking  Oi'ders.  You 
spoke  so  mysteriously  at  times  that  I  thought  there  might  be 
family  reasons  for  your  seeming  indecision,  into  which  I  had 
no  right  to  inquii*e.  But  again  you  spoke  also  in  a  kind 
of  desponding  or  unsatisfied  tone  as  to  the  state  of  the  Church 


C)8  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

and  its  ministers,  which  has  led  me  to  think  that  your  reasons 
are  such  as  concern  yourself  alone,  and  with  which  a  stranger — 
not  to  say  a  friend — may  intermeddle.  The  experience  which 
seemed  to  deter  you  from  the  step  in  question  seems  to  me  to  be 
just  what  would  encourage  me  to  pursue  the  path  I  had  entered 
on.  If  the  Church  is  (and  it  is  painfully  obvious)  torn  by  dis- 
sension, lowered  by  the  ignorance  and  indiscretion  of  too  many 
of  its  ministers,  and  losing  that  respect  which  it  has  hitherto 
received  from  the  world,  it  seems  to  me  just  the  time  for  an 
earnest  and  thoughtful  man,  who  values  the  Church  as  the  true 
and  only  salt  of  society,  to  join  its  ministerial  body,  and  labour 
to  make  his  voice  heard  above  the  jargon  of  sects  and  fanatics. 
"  It  seems  to  me  that  there  never  was  a  time  when  to  preach 
^  the  simple  Gospel  of  St,   Paul  and    St.   John  was  much  more 

«v*  needed  than  now.     The  low  church  preachers  are  teaching  a 

gospel  of  selfishness — "pur  et  simple" — the  high  church  are 
crushing  God's  message  under  a  heap  of  the  dreariest  symbolism. 
We  w^ant  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  preached :  not  a  gospel  of 
rewards  and  punishments,  but  the  good  news  of  that  peace  and 
joy  which  the  knowledge  of  Christ  imparts — that  utter  change  in 
the  aspect  of  the  world  and  of  human  life  which  that  knowledge 
produces.  That  love  is  the  greatest  of  the  graces  we  may  well 
believe,  for  it  is  surely  the  rarest — the  hardest  to  cleave  to,  and 
to  feel  in  the  intercourse  of  life.  And  therefore  woe  unto  us  if 
we  do  not  preach  it.  You  know  all  this ;  and  I  do  wish  I  could 
see  you  on  your  way  to  taking  your  part  as  a  teacher.  I  do  not 
believe  you  have  doubts — except  as  to  yourself  and  your  own 
powers.  God  give  us  all  this  distrust  of  our  own  selves  and  our 
own  powers,  as  the  first  step  to  being  filled  with  His  power, 
which  is  given  wherever  it  is  loved  and  sought  for. 

'  Do  write  to  me,  and  speak  freely  about  these  or  any  other 
difficulties.     Ever  yours  affectionately, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  Monday. 
'Though  I  am  hoping  to  see  you  to-morrow,  still  I  feel  I  must 
write  a  few  lines  to  tell  you  how  good  I  think  you  were  to 
answer  a  note  which  I  felt,  after  I  had  sent  it,  might  appear 
officious  and  uncalled-for.  I  fully  sympathise  with  the  diffi- 
culties which  you  feel  in  your  way  arising  from  your  knowledge 
of  your  own  character.  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  your 
estimate  of  yourself  is  a  true  one,  but  you  know  your  own  weak- 


BEGINNINGS  OF  LIFE  69 

ness  better  than  any  one  else,  as  we  all  must  do.  But  such 
knowledge  is,  as  I  said  before,  the  first  step  to  accepting  that 
strength  which  is  offered  freely  to  you  and  me  and  all  men.^ 

'  I  confess  that  the  aspect  of  religious  parties  is  appalling  ;  and 
petty  as  is  the  little  pride  and  vain-glory  of  the  two  great  parties 
of  High  Church  and  Low,  I  have  come  of  late  to  think  that  of 
the  modern  "  neologians,"  in  many  instances,  quite  as  petty. 
The  prate  and  chatter  of  free  thought,  and  late  schools  of  Biblical 
criticism^  is  to  me  quite  as  offensive  as  any  other  cant ;  and  I 
confess  that  the  contemplation  of  it  all  drives  me  back  to  the 
simple  friendship  of  Christ  as  the  most  perfect  rest  and  relief. 
Whatever  be  the  mysteries  of  His  nature — of  His  births  His  life, 
His  death — still  to  know  that  He  loves  us,  in  spite  of  all,  and  is 
yearning  to  make  us  His,  is  a  shrine  of  comfort  which  may  give 
us  fresh  hope  and  confidence  to  go  on  and  work  at  whatever  our 
hand  finds  to  do — certain  of  this,  that  we  shall  soon  know  all 
things  and  lose  ourselves  in  Him  as  our  perfectest  reward. — Yours 
ever,  A.  A.' 

Ainger  had  by  now  left  Cambridge,  and  when  he  informed 
his  family  of  his  resolution,  he  was  already  settled  with  his 
sister  Marianne  in  lodgings  at  Queen's  Terrace,  St.  John's 
Wood.  But  her  marriage,  soon  after  this,  to  a  German  gentle- 
man named  Mr.  Wiss,  a  descendant  of  the  poet  Campbell, 
put  an  end  to  any  joint  arrangement.  Mrs.  Ainger  and  her 
children  had  meanwhile  moved  to  Birkenhead,  so  from  this 
time  until  his  ordination  he  had  no  real  home  in  London.  He 
was  thus  thrown  much  upon  himself,  and  in  the  intervals  of 
studying  divinity  he  read  and  thought  a  good  deal.  Thought 
with  him  oftenest  took  the  form  of  observation,  and  at  this 
time  it  was  his  habit  to  jot  down  the  results  in  a  notebook. 
The  little  volume  lies  before  us  now — sober  brown,  edged  with 
gold,  full  of  his  careful  handwriting,  lucid,  flowing,  regular 
— and  perhaps  we  cannot  better  follow  his  progress  than  by 
copying  from  it  some  of  the  reflections  that  he  made  during 
1859  and  I860:— 

'Shakespeare  said,  "  Brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit."    Our  age  reads, 
"levity."' 

^  Mr.  Elderton  did  not  enter  the  Church,  but  gave  himself  up  to  teaching. 


70  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'Hamlet's  mental  disorder  consists  in  this,  that  he  judges  all 
men  by  his  experience  of  a  few.  Brought  up  in  the  unnatural 
atmosphere  of  the  Court  of  Denmark,  and  having  no  life  beyond 
it  except  what  he  lives  in  himself,  he  hates  his  kind  because  he 
believes  them  to  resemble  the  persons  among  whom  he  is  doomed 
to  live.  A  large  intercourse  with  the  world  was  the  corrective  he 
needed.' 

'Any  one  who  remembers  the  impression  produced  on  his 
mind  by  King's  Chapel  and  the  other  grand  buildings  of  Cam- 
bi'idge  when  seen  for  the  first  time,  and  remembers  how,  after 
the  lapse  of  a  few  months,  they  failed  to  pi-oduce  any  impression 
at  all,  and  come  to  be  looked  at  as  the  dullest  matter  of  course, 
will  receive  a  slight  aid  towards  understanding  Wordsworth's 
Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality.  Who  will  write  an  "  Intima- 
tions of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of  the  Freshman's  Term  "  .''' 

'  Charles  Lamb's  friend,  who  left  off  reading  to  the  great  increase 
of  his  originality,  assuredly  erred  on  the  right  side.  The  danger 
in  this  much-written-for  age  is  of  reading  too  much.  Placed 
among  the  countless  shelves  of  modern  libraries,  we  are  like  men 
with  many  acquaintances  but  few  friends.  We  ai'e  on  compara- 
tively intimate  terms  with  the  reviews.  We  occasionally  ask  a 
new  poet  to  our  house.  We  are  on  bowing  terms  with  the 
scientific  writers.  We  just  know  the  historian  to  speak  to.  But, 
where  are  the  books  our  forefathers  loved  because  they  were  true 
and  tried,  when  there  were  not  so  many  new-comes  that  they  felt 
themselves  called  on  to  leave  their  best  friends  to  step  across  and 
chat  with  the  smartly-dressed  crowd  of  strangers  opposite  }  Why 
do  we  not  know  our  Shakespeares  as  good  Sir  Thomas  Lee  in 
Woodstock  knew  his  ?  Oh,  that  we  could  be  wrecked  on  a  desert 
island,  and  could  save  '^  Milton"  from  the  wreck  as  well  as  the 
salt-beef  and  biscuit !  That  we  only  knew  our  Spenser  as  well 
as  we  knew  that  most  insipid  of  novels  after  being  locked  up  with 
it  for  three  days  in  wet  weather  in  a  Welsh  inn,  with  no  other 
consolation  near  but  a  Bradshatv  s  Guide  and  a  cruet-stand !  .  .  • 
How  refreshing  it  is  to  meet  sometimes  with  those  who  never 
read  at  all !  What  a  relief  it  is  from  that  clever  technical  con- 
versation which  is  sure  to  spring  up  among  readers  !  Often  we 
envy  those  persons,  unspotted  from  Mudie's,  who  would  listen 
to  the  sentiments  of  books  with  the  astonishment  with  which 
a  savage  in  a  state  of  most  primeval  nature  would  gaze  upon  a 
crinoline.     They  have  advantages  over  us,  proud  as  we  feel  our- 


BEGINNINGS  OF  LIFE  71 

selves.  Their  thoughts  and  feelings  they  can  trace  home  to  their 
objects,  and  know  that  they  are  genuine,  unplagued  by  the 
thought  that  the  same  things  have  often  been  thought  before, 
and  are  as  old  as  the  first  man  who  gazed  upon  a  sunset.  Their 
aspirations  and  hopes  are  more  awful  to  them  that  they  do  not 
know  how  to  give  them  expression  in  words. 

'  This  is  high  ground,  perhaps ;  and  an  ingenuous  reader  would 
pooh-pooh  us.  We  are  content,  if  he  demur,  to  take  a  lower 
ground.  The  non-reader,  if  he  lose  much  by  not  reading — con- 
sider well  from  how  much  he  is  saved.  Truly  the  illiterate  man 
has  much  to  be  thankful  for,' 

'Blackstone  says  that  idiots  cannot  marry.  How  frequently 
is  this  law  evaded  ! ' 

'  According  to  Vattel,  the  Law  of  Nations,  in  its  origin,  is  nothing 
but  the  law  of  Nature  applied  to  nations.  Of  all  the  opinions  of 
the  old  jurists  this  seems  the  most  satisfactory.  It  helps,  too, 
to  expose  a  fallacy  in  Mr.  Mill's  essay  on  Liberty.  The  writer,  in 
trying  to  prove  that  the  Christian's  scheme  of  morality  is  far 
from  being  complete,  mentions  inter  alia  that  such  a  quality  as 
patriotism,  universally  acknowledged  to  be  a  virtue,  is  not  taught 
in  the  New  Testament.  This  statement  shews  to  what  lengths  a 
weak  cause  will  drive  its  advocates.  What  is  patriotism  but  the 
application  to  a  man's  country  of  those  principles  of  love,  grati- 
tude, relationship,  which  are  the  great  teachings  of  the  gospel .'' 
If  the  New  Testament  writers  had  set  themselves  to  lay  down 
every  application  of  the  principles  they  taught,  then,  the  "world 
would  not  hold  the  books  that  should  be  written."  ' 

' "  God  gives  every  man  his  choice  between  truth  and  repose." 
Thus  says  Emerson,  and  how  finely  it  sounds.  But  is  it  not  a 
gross  fallacy  .''  To  whom  will  Mr.  Emerson  venture  to  say  that 
God  has  given  truth  ?  Will  he  dare  to  say  that  any  man  that 
ever  lived  attained  "truth  by  any  measure  of  unrest".''  If 
Emerson  kept  himself  loose  from  all  moorings  for  his  whole  life, 
would  he  attain  any  nearer  to  truth  than  another  man  ?  .  .  .  The 
insinuation  involved  in  it  is  ungenerous  and  unjust,  A  man  will 
never  do  anything  great,  if  he  spend  his  years  in  sifting  and 
digging  the  ground  on  which  he  stands.  He  cannot  labour 
without  a  firm  foundation  under  his  foot.  It  is  only  by  taking 
strong  hold  of  the  soil  in  which  it  springs,  that  the  tree  will  take 
the  greatest  good  from  the  light  into  which  it  rises.' 

'  The  distinction  between  the  two  essayists,  Addison  and  Steele, 


72  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

is  something  like  that  which  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  finds  to  exist 
between  himself  and  Sir  Toby  Belch  :  "  He  does  it  well  enough — 
and  so  do  I  too  :  he  does  it  with  a  better  grace,  but  I  do  it  more 
natural."  ' 

'  Foster's  well-known  essay  is  on  the  aversion  of  men  of  taste 
to  the  Evangelical  religion ;  and  this  will  never  cease  to  exist  till 
men  of  the  evangelical  religion  shew  less  aversion  to  taste.  No 
form  of  creed  will  ever  recommend  itself  to  a  myriad-minded  race, 
which  does  not  acknowledge  that  eveiy  taste,  faculty,  and  power 
of  human  nature  is  capable  of  being  exercised  to  the  glory 
of  God.' 

'  Our  thoughts  are  greater  than  our  words  :  our  feelings  than 
our  thoughts.  Greater  than  all  are  those  phantoms  of  thought 
which  sometimes,  in  our  high  moments,  glide  about  the  mind,  but 
will  not  stay  to  be  registered  in  words.  They  are  glimpses  of  the 
infinite,  which  close  before  we  guess  whither  we  are  looking.' 

'  There  is  an  old  sentimental  prayer :  "  Teach  me  to  forget." 
A  wiser  prayer  would  be  "  Teach  me  to  remember — teach  me  to 
cling  to  the  memory  of  those  things  which  supported  me  when  I 
was  a  child  and  helped  me  onwards,"  It  is  a  misfortune  to  forget. 
"  He  that  lacks  time  to  mourn,"  says  Henry  Taylor,  "  lacks  time 
to  mend."  So  it  is  with  those  who  lack  time  to  live  again,  some- 
times, in  the  past.' 

The  living  in  the  past  as  in  a  natural  home — so  usual  in  age, 
so  rare  in  youth — was,  with  him,  an  instinct.  Perhaps  no  one 
clung  more  tenderly,  or  so  tenaciously,  to  what  had  been  :  and 
to  this  feeling  was  due  a  great  part  of  his  natural  conservatism. 
The  words  are  dated  August,  I860.  It  was  in  the  month  follow- 
ing that  he  was  ordained  Deacon,  and  became  curate  to  the  Rev. 
Richard  Haslehurst,  the  Vicar  of  Alrewas,  in  Staffordshire. 


CHAPTER    V 

ALREWAS    AND    SHEFFIELD 

Alfred  Ainger's  lines  had  fallen  in  pleasant  places.    Mr.  Hasle- 
hurst  was  the  brotlier-in-law  of  the  Rev.  George  Atkinson,  the 
Principal  of  the  Collegiate  School  in  Sheffield,  who  had  been 
Alfred's  friend  in  Cambridge  days,  and  Junior  Tutor  at  Trinity 
Hall.     Through  him  Ainger  had  first  been  introduced  to  the 
Vicar  of  Alrewas,  and  the  instinctive  sympathy  that  each  then 
felt  for  the  other  ripened  into  something  like  intimacy,  and 
ended  in  the  offer  of  the  curacy.     Alfred  went  to  the  place  he 
most  needed — a  home ;  a  house  daily  graced  by  the  love  of  wife 
and  children.   Mrs.  Haslehurst  was  one  of  those  women — Tenny- 
sonian  women,  we  might  call  them — who  come  into  life  already 
idealised,  who  need  no  doings  to  justify  them.     Tranquil  and 
poetic,  she  represented  that  feminine  element  always  necessary 
to  Alfred's  nature,  and  even  more  important  now  than  during 
his  stay  with  the  Kings.     The  sympathy,  the  spiritual  stimu- 
lus which  his  sensitive  temperament  demanded,  were  provided 
by  her,  and  her  power  to  soothe  and  to  encourage  him  became 
a  factor  in  his  existence.     The  shadow  of  her  early  death  was 
still  far  off,  and  the  happy  days  went  by  in  work  and  talk 
and  music.     She  was  herself  a   musician   and   her  husband 
a  good  violinist,  so  that  Ainger's  tenor  voice  with  its  rare 
quality  found  a  warm  welcome  from  them.     So  also  did  his 
friends,  who  were  soon  as  much  accepted  in  the  Vicarage  as 
himself.     They  were  asked  there,  one  after  another,  and  grew, 
like  him,  to  regard  the  house  as  home.     Horace  Smith,  fresh 
from   Germany  with  Schumann's   songs   upon   his  lips ;  the 
literary  Fullarton ;  Ralph  Macleod,  and  others  of  his  Cam- 
bridge cronies,  many  of  them  now  at  work  in  London,  shared 
the  calm  days  at  Alrewas;  and  one  of  them,  Mr.  Alsager 

7S 


74  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

Hay  Hill,  has  left  a  record  in  verse,  dedicated  to  Ainger.     It 
seems  worth  reproducing  as  a  reminder  of  their  intercourse  : — 

'  And  each  had  welcome.     Who  could  douht  the  hand 
That  grasped  us  on  the  threshold  when  we  came? 
(Our  only  title  that  we  came  with  you)  .  .  . 
So  kindly,  too,  the  greeting  on  his  face. 
One  almost  thought,  indeed,  he  was  a  friend 
In  some  forgotten  world  that  once  was  ours.  .  .  . 

Such  a  man 
Is  Nature's  moulding,  fashioned  by  the  hand, 
That  bids  the  oak  uplift  its  valiant  arms.  .  .   . 
A  village  pastor,  be  it  even  so,  .   .   . 
Shepherd  and  king  in  one— without  a  crown, 
But  wearing  all  the  royalty  of  love  ;  .  .  . 

She  too,  the  gentle  partner  at  his  side, 

And  constant  as  the  shadow  to  the  tree.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  How  tenderly 

She  took  the  trivial-seeming  household  tasks,  .  .  . 

Among  her  children  half  a  child  for  them. 

.  .  .  How  blithely  rang 

The  voices  to  our  music  in  their  glee  .  .  . 

.  .  .  And  then  the  vicar  played  his  violin 

As  if  his  very  heart-strings  had  been  given 

To  make  the  tune  go  brisker,  .  .  . 

Or  else  we  kept  the  tourney  of  debate. 

With  not  a  pause  or  resting  of  the  lance 

Till  lamp  flared  low  and  moon  was  gliding  high. 

For  first  we  laid  the  laws  of  village  state ; 

How  vestries  should  be  guided,  how  the  schools  ; 
How  best  to  stamp  the  spawning  schisms  out ; 

Then  poets'  names  would  glide  into  our  talk  ; 
And  one  would  say  '*  We  had  no  poets  now: 
Since  he  the  Seer  of  Rydal  fell  asleep 
There  had  been  many  babblers  in  the  land 
And  mocking-birds  were  many  in  the  woods, 
But  not  a  solitary  nightingale 
To  sing  and  make  a  music  of  its  own." 
Whereat  there  rose  a  clamour  of  dispute 
To  think  that  one  should  dare  to  speak  so  ill. 
And  e  'en  deny  the  very  sweetest  voice 
That  ever  minstrel  raised  amid  the  choir 
Where  all  are  master-singers  sent  of  God. 
The  hand  that  touched  the  sorrow  and  the  sin 
Of  Guinevere  and  made  them  both  immortal ; 


AI.REWAS  AND  SHEFFIELD         75 

The  tougue  that  framed  of  grief  the  holiest  hymn 
That  ever  heart  uplifted  in  its  loss  ; 
It  could  not  be  his  songs  were  born  of  earth, 
Poor  wandering  echoes  of  some  earlier  voice.  .  .  . 
So  lengthened  ran  the  current  of  discourse 
And  so  borne  on  wei*e  one  and  all  of  us — 
From  poets  to  potatoes,  law  to  lambs, 
And  many  another  contrary,  passing  swift ; 
Thus  lightly  touching  all  things,  gauging  none.' 

These  evenings  were  episodes  in  work  of  which  Ainger  took 
his  full  share.  The  homes  of  his  flock  lay  far  apart  and  in 
after  days  he  used  to  tell  how  he  cheered  his  long  tramps 
through  muddy  lanes  by  whistling  the  songs  of  Schubert. 
He  was  not  a  born  parish -priest,  nor  did  his  gifts  lie  in 
district  visiting.  Among  the  poor  as  among  the  rich,  his 
sympathy  was  with  the  individual,  and  while  in  one  cottage 
his  talk  would  flow  with  ease,  in  another  he  would  have 
nothing  to  say.  But  of  those  to  whom  he  felt  akin,  he  made 
friends,  and  to  them  he  remained  not  the  clergyman  but  the 
dear  companion  and  helper,  conversant  with  the  details  of 
their  lives.  The  charm  of  his  presence  still  lives  among  them. 
'  He  married  me^  and  beautifully  he  did  it,'  was  one  old 
woman's  comment  on  his  death. 

Yet  his  real  work  in  Alrewas  lay  outside  these  ministrations. 
Much  of  his  time  was  devoted  to  the  services  which  he  made 
more  musical  than  was  then  common  in  country  places.  His 
chief  achievements,  however,  were  the  readings  which  he  gave 
every  week  to  the  parish,  interspersing  them  periodically  with 
more  important  entertainments,  attended  by  the  neighbour- 
hood —  and  the  neighbourhood  included  its  postal  town, 
Lichfield  —  at  which  he  would  read  Shakespeare  and  the 
poets  to  a  mixed  audience  of  magnates  and  bumpkins.  Who 
can  estimate  the  educational  influence  of  such  an  act  upon  a 
remote  village ;  the  feelings,  the  mirth,  the  experience  that 
the  reader  revealed  to  his  hearers.  He  opened  a  new  world 
to  them,  even  when  they  did  not  understand  it.  Perhaps 
people  are  helped  most  by  what  is  a  little  beyond  them,  and 
he  may  not  only  have  fed,  but  created,  imagination  in  his 
listeners. 


76  LIFE  OF  ALFRED   AINGER 

His  intimacy  with  the  Haslehursts  deepened  his  older 
friendship  with  the  Atkinsons,  whose  house  at  Sheffield  now 
became  a  holiday  home  to  him.  George  Atkinson,  it  will  be 
remembered,  figured  as  Principal  of  the  Collegiate  School  in 
that  town,  and  Ainger  now  undertook  examiner's  work  there. 
This  was  another  motive  for  intercourse  between  them,  and  to 
Mrs.  Atkinson  it  is  that  he  sends  the  following  letters,  written 
after  his  visits.  His  own  portrait  of  himself  is  probably  more 
lifelike  than  any  photograph  could  have  been. 


'  AlREWASj 

'  Lichfield,  Monday  Afternoon,  March  9,  1863. 

'  While  I  was  away  from  home,  dear  friend,  on  my  very 
pleasant  visit  to  your  hospitable  halls,  my  landlady  and  her 
myrmidons  amused  themselves  with  making  excavations  on  the 
site  of  my  sitting-room.  They  called  it  "  putting  things  to  rights." 
In  the  course  of  their  labours  in  the  "house  of  the  comic 
poet"  in  this  modern  Pompeii,  they  came  upon  the  enclosed 
portrait,  to  which,  if  you  please,  you  are  heartily  welcome. 

'At  the  first  glance  you  will  be  shocked,  I  trust,  at  the  un- 
elerical  aspect  of  the  individual  represented.  Like  poet  Churchill, 
it  seems  to  have  given  up  the  white  tie  and  parochial  umbrella, 
for  the  narrow  black  ribbon  of  the  comic  vocalist,  and  the 
bludgeon  of  the  literary  tramp.  Yet  in  truth  is  a  parson  often  a 
Janus,  and  the  lay-figure  in  question  is  my  social  moiety.  As  for 
the  "human  face  divine  "  it  is,  methinks,  as  solemn  as  the  Record 
even  could  desire.  If  you  will  find  fault  with  it  on  the  score  that 
it  is  not  intellectual  enough — I  observe,  with  Mr.  Pecksniff,  that 
the  "same  objection  has  been  made  before." 

'  You  may  tell  Dr.  Allan  with  my  best  remembrances  that  the 
staif  in  my  hand  is  not  meant  to  favour  the  impression  that  I  am 
a  "stickit"  minister,  and  that  my  neck-cloth  is  really  not  as 
black  as  it 's  painted. 

'  On  the  whole  will  you  deign  it  a  place  in  your  coach-house 
(where  you  keep  your  "  Cartes  ")  till  a  better  one  is  executed  } 
will  you  let  it  abide  there  to  typify  the  happy  ease  with  which 
its  living  ideality  would  linger  beneath  your  roof,  if  only  his 
own  pleasure  could  be  consulted  ?  Perchance,  when  the  comic 
poet,  like  his  Pompeian  ancestor,  is  compounded  with  the 
earth  to  which  he's  kin,  it  may  be  a  relic  to  remind   you  of 


ALREWAS  AND  SHEFFIELD         7T 

one  who  had  a  heart,  which,  while  it  beat,  was  warm  with  love 
for  you  and  yours. 

'  I  look  back  with  real  pleasure  to  my  week  with  you.  With 
best  love  to  all  your  iimer  circle,  and  kindest  regards  to  the  outer 
do. — Believe  me,  ever  yours  very  affectionately, 

'Alfred  Ainger. 

'PS. — I  left  behind  me  a  "hood  and  stole"  in  my  bedroom. 
Would  you  make  a  little  parcel  of  it,  and  send  it  me  by  train.  I 
am  very  sorry  to  trouble  you.' 

'  Alrewas, 
'  Lichfield,  Friday,  June  5,  1863. 

'  My  dkar  Friend,  ...  A  stay  at  the  Collegiate  is  a  true  enjoy- 
ment ;  and  rest  assured  that  if  anything  can  ever  make  "  Memory's 
Waist "  less,  it  will  be  such  "  stays  "  as  these.  I  hope  you  are 
not  feeling  the  worse  for  the  great  trouble  and  anxiety  of  the 
past  week.  You  have  this  consolation,  that  you  succeeded  most 
admirably,  and  that  everybody  was  as  comfortable  as  if  in  their 
own  home.  To  cater  for  forty  is  no  slight  task.  .  .  .  You  must 
sometimes  have  wished  that  they  were  all  (as  well  as  your  late 
lamented  cook)  the  "forty  thieves"  and  that  you  could  house 
them  at  night  in  jax's,  borrowed  from  the  family  oil-man — 
and  yet,  methinks,  the  harmony  that  prevailed  in  the  bedrooms 
was  better  than  any  "  Family  Jars." 

'  Dear  friend,  I  hope  you  know  me  of  old,  and  that  my  jesting 
does  not  mean  a  careless  and  indifferent  spirit ;  it  is  a  very  happy 
thing  to  meet  together,  as  we  so  lately  met,  for  it  seems  to  knit 
us  all  more  closely  together,  and  to  foster  goodwill  and  love  on  this 
dull  earth.  So  let  us  be  thankful  and  hopeful  for  the  future — 
looking  forward  to  many  such  happy  meetings  in  time  to  come. 
— Believe  me  always,  affectionately  yours, 

'  Alfred  Ainger. 

'  Tell  George,  with  my  love,  not  to  delay,  any  longer  than  he 
can  help,  sending  me  the  subjects  in  which  I  am  to  examine.  We 
shall  meet  again  in  some  fortnight's  time.     Hurrah ! 

'  There  has  at  last  set  in  a  sweet  and  effectual  rain.  Long  may 
it  rain  over  us. 

"  God  save  the  Queen."  ' 

He  loved  festivals  and  he  loved  thanking  his  friends  for 
them.     Great,  too,  was  his  power  of  promoting  them,  a  power 


78  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  ATNGER 

which  alone  would  have  made  him  a  welcome  guest  wherever 
he  went.  His  holidays  were  varied.  Sometimes  he  spent 
them  at  Folkestone  with  his  sister  and  her  growing  family, 
sometimes  with  friends  in  London.  We  have  before  us  an 
invitation  from  Horace  Smith,  served  up,  '  after  Heine,'  an 
echo,  still,  of  youth  and  wit  and  gaiety. 


'TO  THE  REV.  A.  A.  IN  THE  COUNTRY  FROM  HIS 
FRIEND  IN  LONDON. 

*  Thou  little  village-curate 
Come  quick  and  do  not  wait ; 
We  '11  sit  and  talk  together, 
So  sweetly  tete-a-tete. 

'  Oh,  do  not  fear  the  railway 
Because  it  seems  so  big — 
Dost  thou  not  daily  trust  thee 
Unto  thy  little  gig  } 

'  This  house  is  full  of  pantries 
And  half  shut  up  and  black  ; 
But  rooms  the  very  snuggest 
Lie  hidden  at  the  back. 
Come  !  come  !  come  ! ' 

The  '  little  village-curate'  found  ample  leisure  for  literature 
and  reflection.  His  note-book  stands  for  a  kind  of  mental 
diary,  and  again  we  will  keep  count  of  his  thoughts  by  tran- 
scribing a  few  from  its  pages. 

'  Surely  no  one  ever  had  a  keener  zest  for  the  beauties  of 
the  country  than  the  poet  Chaucer.  He  revels  in  the  description 
of  country  sights  and  sounds.  And  therefore  it  is  pleasant  for  a 
Cockney  to  read  how  the  poet  (himself  a  Cockney)  writes  of  his 
birth-place.  "  Also  the  citye  of  London,  that  is  to  mee  so  dere 
and  swete,  in  which  I  was  forth  growen ;  and  more  kindly  love 
have  I  to  that  place  than  to  any  other  in  yerth,  as  every  kindly 
creture  hath  full  appetite  to  that  place  of  his  kindly  engen- 
dure.'" — Testctvtent  of  Love,  Book  i. 

*'  Like  a  gentleman  at  ease 
With  moral  breadth  of  temperament." 

Tknnyson. 


ALREWAS  AND  SHEFFIELD         79 

'What  is  "Moral  breadth  of  temperament"?  Perhaps  this — 
never  to  suspect  that  you  are  suspected.' 

( 

\_^  '" Life  is  our  apprenticeship  to  immortality." 

''^'  *  Does  not  this  fact  require  to  be  more  universally  acknowledged 
than  at  present  ?  Life  w^as  not  given  us  that  we  might  be 
religious;  but  religion  was  given  us  that  we  might  be  able  to 
live.' 

*  You  would  readily  agree  with  me  if  I  said  that  cleverness  was 
no  guarantee  for  truth.  Yet  take  eainiest  care  that  you  do  not 
fall  down  and  worship  the  former,  in  mistake  for  the  latter.' 

After  the  publication  of  Essays  and  Reviezcs : — 

*  It  is  because  there  is  some  truth  in  the  book  that  the  clergy 
fear  it.  They  have  not  the  justice  to  acknowledge  the  truth,  or 
the  theological  acumen  to  separate  the  truth  from  the  error,  and 
think  it  the  safest  course  to  try  and  crush  the  teaching  of  the 
book,  good  and  bad  alike.  The  clergy  of  the  Church  of  England 
are  not  displaying  very  encouraging  signs  of  enlightenment  at 
this  crisis.  Like  the  queen  in  Hamlet's  play,  they  "protest  too 
much  methinks."  ' 

The  studied  justice  of  this,  justice  acquired  through  reason, 
where  his  taste  might  not  have  helped  him  to  so  equable  a 
verdict,  is  very  characteristic  of  him.  So  is  the  following 
passage  about  the  responsibilities  of  the  Humorist,  as  he 
regarded  them — and  this  conception  which  ruled  him  through 
life,  for,  from  first  to  last,  his  humour  was  strictly  controlled 
by  his  moral  standard. 

*  It  is  amazing  how  easily  vice  takes  a  clothing  of  romance, 
valour  and,  above  all,  humour — which  take  from  its  deformity. 
There  is  nothing  that  is  so  easily  made  comic  as  sin ;  indeed  the 
sinful  and  the  comic  have  one  essential  quality  in  common,  that 
they  are  out  of  the  common.  Both  are  distortions  of  nature. 
The  surprise  caused  by  the  exaggerations  of  a  drunken  man  is  one 
of  humour,  and  quite  puts  aside  the  otherwise  natural  feeling  of 
aversion.  .  .  .  Thus  it  is  that  the  responsibilities  of  a  humorous 
writer  are  so  grave.  He  is  doing  very  serious  mischief  when  he 
represents,  as  he  so  easily  may,  vice  and  vulgarity  as  the  objects 
of  our  laughter.  There  is  little  or  no  truth  in  comic  novelists' 
representations  of  low  life.     They  cannot  portray  the  private  lives 


80  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

and  conversation  of  cabmen  and  coal-heavevs  as  they  really  are. 
The  portrayal  of  them  would  be  simply  offensive.  .  .  .  Thackeray, 
in  a  paper  on  public  executions^  points  out  that  Dickens^  who 
knows  life  well  and  knows  the  characteristics  of  a  thief's  mistress, 
is  quite  aware  that  his  pictui-e  of  Nancy  in  Oliver  Twist  is  not  a 
faithful  one.     He  dared  not  draw  a  true  picture  of  her.  .  .  .' 

He  disliked  effectiveness  and  he  seemed  purposely  to 
avoid  the  brilliance  of  epigram.  His  sayings  are  so  simply 
and  conscientiously  put  that  we  are  often  tempted  to 
think  them  obvious,  until  we  look  more  closely  and  find  that 
the  clearness  of  the  water  has  misled  us  as  to  its  depth. 
Often,  too,  the  note  of  his  utterances  is  one  almost  of  in- 
dividual prejudice,  as,  for  instance,  when  he  writes  of 
Emerson : — 

'  How  can  any  one  rise  from  reading  Emerson's  Conduct  of  Life 
without  feeling,  if  he  has  a  human  heart  left  within  him,  that  if 
that  is  the  whole  Gospel  of  humanity,  it  were  our  blessedest  fate 
to  die  and  be  at  peace.' 

The  fact  is  that  Ainger  was  too  personal  for  contact  with 
Emerson,  and  was,  as  it  were,  offended  by  the  rarefied 
atmosphere  of  philosophical  thought.  He  desired  austerity, 
but  the  austerity  of  controlled  emotion,  not  the  austerity  of 
abstract  wisdom. 

In  1863  he  was  ordained  Priest,  and  his  life  at  Alrewas 
came  to  an  end.  He  accepted  an  appointment  as  assistant 
teacher  in  the  Collegiate  School  at  Sheffield,  under  his  friend, 
and  it  was  with  the  Atkinsons  that  for  the  next  two  years  he 
took  up  his  abode.  Few  details  concerning  them  remain, 
but  they  were  happy  years  of  cheerful  toil  and  pleasant 
recreation — of  widening  interests  and  new  friendships  that 
soon  became  old  ones,  '  Sheffield,  a  place  and  people  I  dearly 
love,'  he  wrote  long  afterwards,  and  his  ties  to  it  never 
slackened. 

Of  his  professional  work  there  is  scant  record.  Much  the 
same  might  be  said  of  it,  as  of  his  parochial  visitings.  He 
was  made  for  a  boy,  not  for  the  boy,  and  though  he  fulfilled 
his  task  with  strict  conscience  and  was  liked  throughout  the 


ALREVVAS   AND   SHEFFIELD         81 

school,  it  is  easy  to  believe  that  his  sensitive  and  fantastic 
being  would  not  have  produced  much  mark  on  that  race  of 
crude  young  Philistines  called  schoolboys.  Yet  wherever 
refinement  existed,  wherever  a  taste  for  literature  or  some 
half-formed  spiritual  aspiration  lay  ready  to  be  called  forth, 
the  impression  was  made  and  remembered.  So  were  the 
readings  and  impersonations  with  which  he  delighted  the 
school.  For  games  he  never  had  sufficient  physical  strength, 
but  throughout  his  life  they  fascinated  him,  and  he  loved  them 
in  every  form  with  a  keenness  which  stood  him  in  good  stead 
during  his  mastership  at  Sheffield.  His  profession  was  a  slow 
one  as  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Atkinson — in  verse : — 

*  Slight  is  our  calling  in  men's  eyes, 
And  slight  the  fame  that  greets  success. 
To  work  and  wait  seems  all  our  prize, 
How  great  that  prize  none  else  can  guess. 
By  wise  dynamic  law  we  're  led — 
That  loss  in  time  is  gain  in  power. 
Our  name  an  hour  can  never  spread 
Because  we  do  not  serve  the  hour.' 

Perhaps  no  one  was  less  cut  out  than  he  for  routine  work ; 
and  no  one  would  more  have  objected  to  being  told  so,  for 
routine  was  part  of  his  conception  of  true  discipline. 

His  daily  round  at  Sheffield  was  cheered  by  a  great  deal 
of  music.  Most  of  his  new  friends  were  musical,  chief  among 
them  the  William  Smiths,  a  large  family  with  whom  he 
formed  a  close  intimacy,  lasting  to  the  end.  He  loved  a  large 
family  with  all  its  natural  cares  and  cheerful  doings,  and  he 
had  a  peculiar  gift  of  forming  part  of  one.  In  this  case, 
every  boy  and  girl  Avas  as  much  his  companion  as  their 
parents.  His  figure  would  appear  at  the  schoolroom  window, 
breaking  in  upon  the  tedium  of  lessons  with  droll  antics  and 
irresistible  imitations  of  monkeys  and  birds,  with  wonder- 
stories  and  nonsense  rhymes  struck  spark-like  from  the 
moment,  or  with  the  conjuring  tricks  in  which  he  always 
took  pride.  With  their  mother  his  ties  were  perhaps  the 
closest;  her  sense  of  humour  suited  his,  and  it  was  to  her 
that  for  thirty  years,  with  unfailing  punctuality,  he  wrote  an 

F 


82  LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

annual  Christmas  letter.  '  Whenever  I  hear  a  good  story,"" 
he  once  said,  '  I  chuckle  and  say  to  myself,  that  will  do  for 
Mrs.  Smith  on  Christmas  Day.'  And  his  letters  are  like  an 
echo  of  the  festive  times  he  had  spent  with  the  Smiths,  for 
their  house,  Brocco  Bank,  was  the  centre  of  music  and 
hospitality.  An  oratorio  in  the  manner  of  Handel,  called 
'  The  Oyster  Feast '  and  '  dedicated  to  that  eminent  maestro, 
Herr  Wilhelm  Schmit,'  still  exists,  as   far   as   the   libretto 

goes : — 

'  Away  with  books  and  learned  looks, 
Avaunt,  thou  studious  cloister, 
We  're  off  forthwith  to  AVilliam  Smith 
To  taste  the  juicy  oyster. ' 

Thus  it  led  off  to  the  tune  of '  Shells  of  Ocean/  followed 

by  Mrs.  Atkinson's  solo  : — 

'  What  viands  e'er,  that  earth  may  bear. 
Can  in  our  hearts  such  joy  stir.'' 
Ah,  there's  no  meat  in  life  so  sweet 
As  is  the  dainty  oyster.' 

And  then  came  the  '  Septett  (with  vinegar  and  pepper 
obligatoV  and  the  '  Duett  between  the  Learned  Pundit  and 
the  Ignoble  Punster'  (Alfred  Ainger  himself),  and  a  final 
request  that  '  each  performer  be  provided  with  a  full  score.' 
Alfred  was  jester,  composer,  and  conductor — the  Mercury  of 
the  company.  He  was  an  inveterate  rhymer,  and  there  are 
copy-books  full  of  verse-epitaphs,  prospectively  improvised 
in  Latin  and  English  for  the  tombs  of  his  friends — parodies — 
album-lyrics.  Serious  poems  there  are  too,  composed,  perhaps, 
on  his  long  walks  over  the  Yorkshire  moors  and  relegated 
by  him  to  obscurity.  Many  of  them  he  himself  would  hardly 
like  to  see  in  print,  for  he  did  not  take  them  very  seriousl)-, 
but  for  the  most  part  threw  them  off  without  bestowing  much 
time  upon  them.  Yet  their  simple  feeling  speaks  to  us,  and 
one  of  them,  '  The  Prayer  of  a  Busy  Man '  will  find  a  response 
in  many  hard-working  spirits  : — 

'  Oh  Lord,  with  toil  our  days  are  filled  ! 

They  rarely  leave  us  free, 
Oh  give  us  space  to  seek  for  grace 
In  happy  thoughts  of  Thee. 


ALREWAS  AND   SHEFFIELD         83 

Yet  hear  usj  though  we  seldom  ask  ; 

Oh  leave  us  uot  alone  ! 
In  every  thought,  and  word,  and  task 

Be  near  us,  though  unknown. 

Still  lead  us,  wand'ring  in  the  dark, 

Still  send  thy  Heavenly  food. 
And  mark,  as  none  on  earth  can  mark. 

Our  struggle  to  be  good  ! ' 

There  are  other  lyrics  of  this  time  inspired  by  sorrow.  For 
in  January  1865,  there  came  the  news  of  Mrs.  Haslelmrst's 
death,  after  a  long  illness,  while  Avith  her  husband  abroad. 
The  grief  it  brought  to  Ainger — the  sense  of  acute  personal 
loss,  unexpected  and  unnatural — was  ineradicable.  There  is 
a  letter  of  his  describing  her  funeral,  restrained,  almost 
formal,  but  behind  the  quiet  lucid  words  we  can  feel  the 
rising  tide  of  emotion  which  he  dared  not  let  forth.  Death 
consecrated  for  him  a  friendship  already  holy,  and  made 
unfading  the  romance  with  which  he  surrounded  her. 

'And  when  on  you  green  mound  I  gaze 
Where  lies  the  joy  of  bygone  days. 
Tears  give  the  breaking  heart  relief. 
But  a  new  joy  up-springs  from  grief.' 

So  he  wrote  at  Alrewas  on  Easter  Day,  1865.  Sorrows 
seldom  come  singly.  The  same  year  that  she  died  took  from 
him  another  person  near  to  him,  his  brother-in-law,  Dr. 
Koscow.  This  blow  which  he  felt  both  for  his  sister  and 
himself,  greatly  changed  his  outlook,  for  henceforth  he  looked 
upon  himself  as  the  guardian  of  her  and  her  children,  and  the 
responsibilities,  which  never  left  him,  began  to  crowd  thick 
upon  him. 

We  can  find  only  one  letter  belonging  to  this  period,  but 
its  grave  tone  suits  well  with  the  turn  his  thoughts  had 
taken.  Mrs.  Atkinson  had  asked  him  to  be  godfather  to  her 
little  son. 

'Collegiate  School. 

'My  dear  Friend, — You  are  about  to  give  me  a  very  sacred 
interest  in  your  little  child,  and  I  thank  you  for  this  new  proof  of 
your  regard. 

'  The  office  of  godfather  has  indeed  come  to  be  little  more,  in 


84  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

practice,  than  a  name,  but  nevertheless  I  would  not  have  accepted 
such  a  trust  at  your  hands,  did  I  not  know  that  we  are  agreed  as 
to  what  we  would  most  wish  and  pray  for  the  young  Christian.  I 
could  not  consent  to  take  upon  myself  this  charge,  if  I  did  not 
know  that  what  I  promise  to-day  will  be  the  chief  care  of  you  and 
yours  in  years  when  we  may  be  widely  separated. 

'  Our  most  natural  thought  as  we  look  upon  the  little  uncon- 
scious face  to-day  will  be  of  the  innocence  of  the  child,  and  the 
unknown  future  that  is  before  him.  We  may  look  forward  to  a 
time  when  he  too  shall  feel  the  "little  joy"  of  knowing  that  he 
is  "  farther  off  from  Heaven  than  when  he  was  a  boy."  But  Ave 
may  take  best  comfort,  I  think,  from  the  reflection  that  the 
"  innocence  "  of  childhood  is  but  another  name  for  its  ignorance, 
and  that  to  press  on  to  the  happiness  of  the  redeemed  is  of  more 
avail,  and  is  more  blessed  than  to  regain  (if  it  were  possible)  the 
blamelessness  of  the  child. 

*  Whatever  we  may  teach,  may  God  teach  him  this,  that  he  will 
only  fulfil  his  true  manhood  when  he  strives  after  the  likeness  in 
which  he  was  created. 

*  May  you  and  I  and  all  men  be  striving  after  this  likeness : 
"  Not  backward  be  our  glances  bent.  But  onward  to  our  Father's 
Home." — Ever,  dear  friend,  affectionately  yours, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

The  year  1865  saw  a  new  phase  open  for  him.  A  brilliant 
gleam  of  success  fell  across  his  uphill  road,  and  guided  his  steps 
in  the  direction  which  was  to  be  that  of  his  life-work.  He 
had  heard  that  the  Readership  at  the  Temple  in  London  was 
vacant,  and  his  friend,  Horace  Smith,  wrote  to  urge  his  com- 
peting for  it.  But  it  was  chance  that  threw  the  casting  die. 
He  used  to  describe  how,  walking  along  the  Sheffield  streets 
one  day,  he  met  an  acquaintance  who  stopped  and  spoke  about 
the  Readership.  'Why  don't  you  go  in  for  it  yourself?'  he 
said :  *  you  had  better  run  up  to  London  and  try,'  and  the 
random  remark,  so  Ainger  declared,  made  up  his  mind  for 
him  and  decided  his  fate. 

It  was  in  November  1865,  that  he  went  to  town  to  appear 
before  the  Benchers  of  the  Inner  Temple,  carrying  with  him 
testimonials  from  Fawcett,  and  Latham,  and  Ward,  as  well  as 
his  clerical  credentials.  He  was  one  of  the  three  candidates 
picked  out  from  the  many,  and  once  having  listened  to  his 


ALREWAS  AND  SHEFFIELD         85 

voice,  the  assembly  elected  him  unanimously.  His  rare  beauty 
of  tone,  low  and  vibrating — his  manner  of  reading,  vivid  with- 
out being  dramatic,  impressive  without  the  slightest  striving 
for  effect — were  indeed  unique,  drawing  many  to  the  Temple 
for  nearly  forty  years  to  come.  With  the  Temple  his  name 
was  henceforth  to  be  identified.  From  the  first  he  grew 
familiar  with  its  pulpit,  for  the  Readership  entailed  preaching 
in  the  afternoon,  as  well  as  at  other  times  if  the  Master  were 
absent  and  required  it. 

At  the  time  of  Ainger's  appointment,  Dr.  Robinson  was 
Master,  nor  was  it  till  1869  that  he  was  succeeded  by  Dr. 
Vaughan,  who  was  to  become  Ainger's  intimate  friend.  With 
every  one  about  the  Temple  he  soon  became  familiar ;  with 
the  organist,  Dr.  Hopkins,  with  the  vergers,  and,  outside  the 
church,  with  the  Benchers,  whose  lawyers'  talk  always  had  a 
peculiar  fascination  for  him.  Nor  was  there  a  guest  more 
welcome  than  he  at  the  Benchers''  table. 

Early  in  1866,  as  soon  as  his  affairs  were  settled,  he  left 
Sheffield  and  came  to  live  in  London  altogether.  To  part 
with  the  Atkinsons  was  a  grief,  and  he  penned  no  more  grace- 
ful tribute  than  his  acknowledgment  of  what  their  home  had 
meant  to  him.  Nor  can  we  close  the  chapter  of  his  Sheffield 
career  more  fitly  than  by  transcribing  it. 

'  Exiled  from  his  fathei-'s  house, 
As  the  sacred  records  tell, 
In  the  quest  of  home  and  love, 
Jacob  came  to  Haran's  well. 

And  he  wooed  his  Rachel  there, 
Seven  years  without  demur, 
And  they  seemed  to  him  but  few, 
For  the  love  he  bore  to  her. 

Homeless,  and  with  kindred  few, 
Driven  Jacob-like  to  roam, 
I,  for  seven  happy  years, 
Found  with  thee  and  thine  a  home 

Trusted  friends  of  seven  years, 
May  I  not  my  guerdon  claim  ? 
Christian  are  the  hopes  we  share. 
Call  me  by  my  Christian  name.' 


86  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  Since  I  learned  of  my  success,""  he  wrote  to  the  same  kind 
friends,  '  I  have  often  wished  that  our  dear  ones  who  are  gone 
were  here  to  share  my  happiness ;  but  I  know  that  they  do 
share  it.  .  .  . 

'  I  feel  rather  lonely,  as  one  must  do  on  the  threshold  of  a 
new  and  untried  life,  but  I  believe  God  will  be  with  me  to  help 
me  as  He  has  been  all  my  life,  and  I  trust  I  may  be  allowed  to 
do  some  good  work  in  my  new  position.  .  .  ."' 


CHAPTER    VI 

AT    THE    TEMPLE 

1866-1873 

Alfred  Ainger  was  now  in  his  thirtieth  year.  At  this  period 
of  life,  standing  as  he  did  on  the  threshold  of  a  new  experi- 
ence, it  may  be  well  to  pause  and  look  at  him  as  he  then  was. 
Pale  of  face,  pale  of  hair,  with  eyes  of  a  piercing  blue,  varying 
in  intensity  according  to  his  mood,  now  cool  and  light,  now 
very  dark  and  glowing,  his  under-lip  protruding,  as  if  to  shoot 
forth  some  whimsy,  his  fine,  nervous  hands  often  used  in  an 
expressive  gesture,  his  form,  frail  yet  elastic,  slightly  stooping 
as  it  moved  forward  with  a  distinctive  striding  step — it  is  thus 
that  he  rises  before  us,  a  figure  suggestive  of  the  stage  in  its 
good  old  days,  of  one  of  the  actors  whom  Lamb  remembered, 
full  of  character  and  of  erratic  grace.  His  appearance  was 
indicative  of  his  character.  The  first  word  suggested  by 
both  was  personality — that  force  which  can  only  be  felt,  not 
defined.  When  he  came  into  a  room,  the  room  knew^  it  and 
was  changed.  'When  he  left  us,' said  a  friend,  'we  always 
felt  as  if  we  had  been  at  a  wedding ;  we  did  not  know  what  to 
do  for  the  rest  of  the  day.'  It  was  part  of  his  charm  that  he 
contrived  to  unite  so  many  paradoxes.  Mercurial  and  formal, 
fantastic  and  imbued  with  sharp  common  sense,  he  was  a 
strange  mixture  of  Ariel  and  of  an  eighteenth-century  divine. 
Charitable  he  was  more  than  most  men,  and  almost  as  pre- 
judiced as  he  was  charitable;  full  of  deep  Christian  humility, 
yet  with  such  an  eye  for  folly  that  his  tongue  often  dealt  in 
mordant  satire.  A  lover  of  the  obvious,  but  so  fastidious  that 
he  sometimes  seemed  capricious  or  unjust ;  dependent  on  good 
company,  and  also  a  creature  of  moods,  of  formidable  silences 
which  none  could  break,  till  some  chance  word  that  took  his 
fancy  changed  the  weather,  and  the  sun  burst  forth  again. 

b7 


88  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  ATNGER 

'  I  will,  however,  admit  that  the  said  Elia  is  the  worst  com- 
pany in  the  world  in  bad  company,  if  it  be  granted  me  that  in 
good  company  he  is  nearly  the  best  that  can  be.  He  is  one  of 
those  of  whom  it  may  be  said  :  Tell  me  your  covipany  and  Pit 
tell  you  your  manners.  He  is  the  creature  of  sympathy,  and 
makes  good  whatever  opinion  you  seem  to  entertain  of  him.' 
These  words,  written  by  Hazlitt  about  Lamb,  serve  as  the 
best  epitome  of  Alfred  Ainger's  social  qualities. 

When  he  came  to  London  for  good,  he  first  lived  with 
his  old  Cambridge  friend,  Mr.  FuUarton,  and  his  mother,  who 
had  a  house  in  Westbourne  Square.  But  a  great  deal  of  his 
spare  time  was  given  to  his  sister,  ]\Irs.  Roscow,  at  Sandgate, 
where  she  now  had  her  home,  and  the  close  relations  between 
them,  broken  into  by  her  marriage  and  by  his  removal  to  a 
distance,  were  resumed  once  more,  the  closer  for  her  solitude 
and  sorrow.  In  her  love  for  him  there  always  remained  some- 
thing of  a  mother's  feeling,  and  a  letter  in  rhyme  that  she 
wrote  to  him  about  his  recent  success  gives  voice  to  all  her 
solicitude. 

'Dearest,  my  joy  flows  with  thy  joy  and  gain  ; 
God  knows  thy  soul's  bright  wings  I  would  not  stain 
AVith  shade  from  thoughts  less  happy  than  tliine  own, 
But  that  true  love  can  only  take  her  tone 
From  what  lies  nearest,  dearest,  to  the  heart. 
Thou  on  fair  heights  of  expectation  art. 
New  worlds  of  power  unfolded  to  thy  view. 
All  blessings  falling  on  thy  head  like  dew.   .  .  . 
Who  then  in  this  thy  brightest  hour  could  fear 
The  treacherous  cloud  that  may  be  passing  near? 
Only  the  heart  that  loves  thee  best  can  see 
The  dangers  lurking  in  prosperity.  .  .  . 
Ambition  reaching  upwards  to  a  crown 
^V^hich  being  found  has  power  to  drag  thee  down.  .  .  . 
Forgive  these  old,  old  thoughts ;  I  would  not  chill 
Thy  youth's  sweet,  sunny  spring-time.     May  it  still 
Brighten  all  hopes  ;  for  thee  I  cannot  fear 
That  thou  wilt  ever  learn  to  hold  less  dear 
Truth's  holy  cause.  .  .  . 
With  this  firm  trust  am  I  then,  brother  mine, 
Thy  loving,  happy  sister — Adeline.' 

Her  brother  wrote   verses   to   her,  too,   and    the   sonnet 


AT  THE  TEMPLE  89 

that  follows  was   probably  composed   in   a  mood  of  lonely 
depression  : — 

'  Home  is  not  home  where  is  no  kindred  face  ; 
And  often,  wearied  with  the  jars  of  day, 
From  strangers'  hearths  I  sadly  turn  away 
The  story  of  my  childhood's  days  to  trace. 
The  past  seems  fading  from  me  ;  and  the  grace 
That  clings  to  home  and  household  memories  ; 
For  friends  are  sweet,  but  friendship  ne'er  supplies 
The  love  of  those  who  link  us  to  our  race. 
But  as  in  cottage  panes  the  setting  sun 
Writes  in  gold  words  the  story  of  its  reign, 
So  in  thine  eyes,  my  dearest,  still  remain 
The  gentle  memories  of  a  day  that's  done  ; 
And  when  I  think  of  thee,  I  smile,  my  own, 
To  think  I  ever  thought  I  was  alone.' 

Adeline   Roscow   was   in   many    ways   a    contrast   to   her 
brother.     As  spiritual  as  he,  she  had  gone  through  phases 
of  religious  doubt  and  suffering.     Her  character  was  intenser; 
her  mind,  though  not  so  gifted,  was  bolder;  and  she  thought 
every  risk  worth  facing  in  the  pursuit  of  truth,  confident  that 
faith  and  aspiration  were  stronger  than  any  formula.     '  I  start 
from  the  Real  and  you  from  the  Ideal,  yet  we  meet  on  common 
ground  at  last,'  her  husband  had  once  said  to  her.     Emerson 
and  Huxley  were  the  writers  whom  she  most  admired  ;  though 
she  was  an  idealist  she  was  also  a  keen  appreciator  of  science, 
nor  did  she  in  any  way  regard  it  as  hostile  to  belief.     When 
she  spoke  of  the  education  that  she  desired  for  her  boys,  it 
was  one  of  her  chief  points  that  science  should  hold  a  pro- 
minent place  in  their  upbringing.    '  It  is  happiness,''  she  wrote 
in  connection  with  this  subject,  'to  think  how  the  light  of 
Truth  is  clearing  away  some  of  the  difficulties,  the  mysteries, 
which  have  perplexed  our  generation,'  and  a  poem  of  hers, 
belonging  to  this  time,  sums  up  her  conviction  and  marks  her 
individual  thought : — 


'i3* 


'There  is  a  higher  truth  than  truth  of  creed  ; 
This  will  not  serve  us  in  our  utmost  need, 
Even  though  truth  unmixed  should  be  ours  ; 
'Tis  truth  of  life,  of  purpose,  and  of  deed  .  .  . 
That  makes  our  spirits  heavenward-climbing  flowers. 


90  LTFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

Then  do  not  weep  for  him  or  deem  him  blind 
AVhose  heart  and  soul  and  life  to  God  are  given  ; 
With  time  dies  every  error  of  the  mind. 
Only  the  soul  can  cast  a  staiia  on  Heaven.' 

Many  of  the  long  conversations  between  the  brother  and 
the  sister  were  about  the  education  of  the  four  children,  two 
boys  and  two  girls,  who  ranged  from  ten  years  old  downwards, 
and  she  often  surprised  him  by  dwelling  upon  the  details  of 
her  wishes,  prompted,  as  afterwards  appeared,  by  the  premoni- 
tion of  her  death. 

Perhaps  in  these  days  that  she  so  wished  to  make  happy 
for  him  she  hardly  showed  him  the  strain  that  it  was  to  her 
to  keep  cheerful,  though  her  instinctive  interest  in  things 
made  her  easily  absorbed  in  the  topics  that  his  new  life 
brought  into  play. 

He  had  made  his  mark  at  the  Temple.  Every  Sunday 
afternoon  he  read  and  preached  to  a  crowded  and  cultivated 
audience,  such  as  he  had  never  had  before,  often  taking  for  his 
theme  the  subjects  of  the  day  which  he  thought  his  sermons 
might  affect.  Popular  education  was  one  of  them — the  subject 
of  a  discourse  as  typical  in  manner  as  in  thought. 

'And  think,  too,  in  conclusion,  what  light  this  passage  (Mark  x. 
15)  incidentally  throws  upon  the  functions  of  the  educator.  If 
we  are  to  learn  as  Christians,  even  as  children  learn  from  a  wise 
teachei*,  let  us  remember  also  what  duty  that  imposes  upon  those 
who  have  to  educate  a  people.  The  cry  of  the  day  is  for  educa- 
tion— unsectarian — compulsory,  if  need  be ;  that  no  child  in  our 
teeming  streets  may  grow  up  ignorant  of  its  powers  and  of  that 
which  those  powers  were  given  it  to  procure.  We  hope  the  day 
is  coming  when  this  may  be  accomplished,  only  let  us  be  sure 
that  we  know  what  education  is ;  that  it  is  to  lead  child  and 
adult  alike  under  a  divine  discipline,  not  only  to  furnish  them 
with  powers  that  can  do  the  Devil's  work  as  readily  as  they  can 
do  God's.  For  it  is  possible  to  put  into  their  hands  a  light  which 
can  disclose  new  paths  to  Hell,  as  well  as  to  Heaven,  and  we  may 
lead  them  to  retort  upon  us  in  the  end,  as  Caliban  retorted  upon 
Prospero : — 

''  You  taught  me  language,  and  my  profit  on 't 
Is — I  know  how  to  curse  !  " 


p-i}y±2jnHS3;i. 


-^V>t-JBt«« 


Adeline  Roscow. 

(ai.fked  ain(;er's  sister.) 

From  a  photograph. 


AT  THE  TEMPLE  91 

'  We  may  forgo  the  right  to  train  up  broods  of  controversialists 
on  this  side  or  on  that,  but  we  can  only  abnegate  at  our  peril  the 
duty  of  teaching  every  child  in  our  schools  that  there  is  a  Kingdom 
of  Heaven,  on  accepting  which  depends  its  true  prosperity  and 
peace.' 

He  writes,  enclosing  this  fragment  to  his  friend : — 

'  My  dear  Smith, — Reading  your  admirable  speech  at  the 
Sheffield  congress,  I  could  not  but  recall  the  above  words  which 
I  spoke  a  few  weeks  ago  in  the  Temple  Church.  I  am  sure  that 
you  will  agree  with  them,  even  as  I  am  sure  that  I  agree  with 
your  utterances  on  the  same  topic.  I  believe  that  the  time  is 
coming  when,  possibly  through  greater  social  revolutions  than 
we  now  dream  of,  and  through  much  tribulation,  we  shall  be 
forced  to  preach  a  broader  and  deeper  kingdom  of  God  than 
the  formularies  of  sects  take  any  account  of.  .  .  . 

'  In  the  meantime  our  duty  is  clear ;  we  must  preach  the 
Revelation  of  God  in  Christ ;  but  we  may  do  that,  as  I  believe, 
with  you,  through  many  channels,  other  than  catechisms  and 
Bible  classes. — Yours  ever  affectionately,  A.  Ainger.' 

It  was  happy  for  the  world  that  these  channels  included 
in  his  eyes  the  high-roads  and  by-roads  of  literature,  that  tlie 
poetry  and  the  wit  of  the  interpreter  became  inextricably  one 
with  the  kind  of  priestly  responsibility  that  he  felt  towards 
art  and  letters.  His  readings  no  less  than  his  preaching,  his 
unexpected  talk  and  his  epigrams,  were  bringing  him  social 
reputation.  We  catch  brief  glimpses  of  him  among  new 
friends,  though  the  only  written  record  we  have  of  a  Shake- 
speare reading  at  this  time  is  one  at  a  house  already  familiar, 
that  of  Mrs.  Menzies,  formerly  Miss  Louisa  King. 

'  Dearest  Louisa, — I  ought  to  apologise  for  running  away  in 
such  haste  the  other  evening;  but  I  was  "colded"  and  tired; 
and,  moreover,  the  reaction  of  my  spirits  after  reading  tragedy  is 
so  peculiar,  that  I  am  wholly  dazed  and  unfit  for  society.  For 
the  time  being  the  fictitious  life  is  immeasurably  more  real  to  me 
than  the  living  life  around  me. 

'Will   you   direct   the   enclosed   and   post   it   to   your   friend 


92  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

Dr.  Richardson,  who  has  kindly  (?)  sent  me  a  copy  of  his  drama. 
I  fear  it  won't  do. 

"  'Mediocribus'  is  not  allowed,  you  know, 
By  gods,  or  men,  or  Paternoster  Row." 

*  Love  to  all,  yours  ever  affectionately,  A.  Ainger.' 

'  (Enclosed)  :— 

*  To  Dr.  R who  sends  me  his  dramas. 

"  Oh  !  doctor,  finding  ever  fresh 

Employment  for  thy  cruel  mood. 
Thy  ether-spray  to  freeze  our  flesh. 
Thy  tragedies  to  freeze  our  blood. 

Thank  God  I  stand  in  need  of  neither  ; 

And  yet,  were  I  my  mind  to  say, — 
If  I  must  be  the  prey  of  either, 

Then  let  it  be  the  ether  s  prey."' 

Upon  work  and  play,  upon  the  joys  of  a  growing  name 
and   a   growing    popularity,   there    descended   the    cloud   of 
sudden  grief.     Early  in  1867,  Alfred   had   gone  to   stay  at 
Sandgate,  unconscious  that  a  tragedy  was  hanging  over  him. 
For  his  sake,  his  sister,  for  the  first  time  since  her  husband's 
death,  had  made  the  effort  of  dining  out.     She  returned  home 
exhausted  and  distressed  by  a  pain  in  her  head  from  which 
she  often  suffered.     When  his  eldest  niece,  Margaret,  a  little 
girl  of  nine,  came  to  greet  him  in  the  morning,  he  sent  her 
to  see  how  her  mother  was.     The  child  came  back  running, 
to  fetch  him,  with  a  white,  scared  face.    He  hastened  to  follow 
her  into  his  sister''s  room,  but  when  he  reached  her  bedside  he 
knew  what  had  happened.    She  had  been  dead  for  some  hours. 
The  pain  had  increased,  and  having  summoned  some  one  to 
attend  to  her,  she  had  been  left  in  apparent  comfort.     A  clot 
had  caused  the  catastrophe,  and  death  had  come  without  a 
struggle — the  fulfilment  of  the  presentiments  which  had  for 
a  year  been  haunting  her.    To  her  brother  she  had  been  sister, 
mother,  and  friend,  and  the  shock  was  one  from  which  he 
never  really  recovered.     His  youth  died  with  her;  the  loss 
of  her  destroyed  the  stability  of  existence  for  him,  and  within 


AT  THE  TEMPLE  93 

a  few  days  his  hair  showed  broad  streaks  of  white  and  he 
altered  more,  perhaps,  then  than  ever  he  altered  afterwards. 

There  is  a  poem  which  he  copied  out  as  a  portrait  of  her,  a 
few  days  after  her  death,  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Young :  Words- 
worth's '  Stanzas  on  Mrs.  Fermor,'  the  sister-in-law  of  Sir 
George  Beaumont — some  of  which  seemed  like  an  epitaph 
inspired  by  her  whom  Ainger  mourned. 

'  Pale  was  her  hue  ;  yet  mortal  cheek 
Ne'er  kindled  with  a  livelier  streak 

When  aught  had  suffered  wrong — 
When  aught  that  breathes  had  felt  a  wound  ; 
Such  look  the  Oppressor  might  confound. 
However  proud  and  strong. 

But  hushed  be  every  thought  that  springs 
From  out  the  bitterness  of  things ; 

Her  quiet  is  secure  ; 
No  thorns  can  pierce  her  tender  feet, 
Whose  life  was  like  the  violet  sweet, 

As  climbing  jasmine  pure  .  .  . 

Thou  takest  not  away,  O  Death  ! 
Thou  strikest— absence  perisheth. 

Indifference  is  no  more ; 
The  future  brightens  on  our  sight ; 
For  on  the  past  hath  fallen  a  light 

That  tempts  us  to  adore.' 

The  day  of  his  sister's  death,  he  had  to  go  back  to  fulfil 
his  duties  at  the  Temple.  Thence  he  journeyed  backwards 
and  forwards  between  Sandgate  and  London.  Her  loss 
changed  his  outlook  in  more  ways  than  one.  She  had  made 
him  guardian  of  her  family.  The  Roscows  had  never  been 
rich,  so  that  after  Dr.  Roscow  died,  his  wife  had  had  some- 
thing of  a  struggle;  and  though  enough  remained  to  bring 
up  her  four  children,  they  were  dependent  on  their  uncle  for  all 
the  needful  little  garnisliings  of  life — its  pleasures  as  well  as 
its  refinements;  wholly  dependent  upon  him,  also,  for  the 
greater  possessions  of  care  and  love.  He  was  still  a  young 
man,  witli  all  a  young  man's  hopes  and  wishes,  with  a  great  need 
of  liberty  and  a  very  limited  income.  His  nature,  which  liked 
many  ties  but  was  not  inclined  for  one — or  for  anything  that 
implied  stationariness  whether  of  body  or  spirit — was  the  last 


94  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

that  others  would  think  fit  to  carry  such  a  burden.  Yet  he 
made  a  home  for  these  boys  and  girls,  the  eldest  of  whom  was 
only  ten,  and  never  from  the  day  of  his  sister's  death  until 
that  of  his  own,  was  he  untrue  to  his  charge. 

When  we  consider  (though  in  doing  so  we  foretell  events) 
that,  in  years  not  so  far  ahead,  he  almost  entirely  undertook 
the  maintenance  of  the  four  children  of  his  sister,  Marianne, 
whose  husband  had  been  unfortunate  in  his  profession,  we 
shall  in  some  fashion  measure  the  restrictions  imposed  upon 
his  life ;  shall  understand  why  in  after  days  he  toiled  on  at 
classes  in  girls'  schools,  at  lecturing,  and  the  writing  of  stray 
articles,  when  many  would  have  liked  him  to  devote  himself 
to  some  more  permanent  work  in  the  cause  of  literature. 

The  sacrifice  was  one  not  unworthy  of  his  well-loved 
Charles  Lamb.  Meanwhile  he  found  helpers  in  the  task  of 
looking  after  his  wards.  He  had  a  rare  gift  for  children, 
and  the  child  that  lived  on  in  him  drew  them  instinctively  to 
liim.  But  he  was  conscious  that  he  did  not  know  much  about 
little  girls,  and  he  made  counsellors  of  two  good  women — one 
an  old  family  friend,  a  playmate  of  his  childhood.  Miss  Mary 
Thompson,  whose  house  was  now  near  his  in  London,  the 
other,  also  an  old  friend,  one  whom  Adeline  Roscow  had 
deeply  loved — Miss  Emma  Young,  Avho  lived  at  Reigate — the 
cousin  of  Alfred  Domett,  better  known  as  Robert  Browning's 
'  Waring.'  Between  these  two  ladies  the  maternal  care  of  the 
girls,  Margaret  and  Ada,  was  divided,  and  a  great  deal  of 
motherly  tenderness  accompanied  their  ministrations,  the 
boys,  too,  finding  a  home  with  them  whenever  they  happened 
to  require  it.  As  the  girls  were  sent  to  a  boarding-school  at 
Reigate,  it  was  Miss  Young  who  superintended  their  early 
education,  while  Miss  Thompson  looked  after  the  holidays 
that  were  not  spent  with  their  uncle.  It  was  he,  however, 
who  planned  their  days;  and  his  letters  and  visits  to  his 
confidantes  took  up  no  small  part  of  his  time.  The  elder  boy 
was  already  at  school — the  Collegiate  School  at  Sheffield — and 
the  younger  was  sent  for  a  while  to  stay  with  his  father's 
relations.  Harassed  by  all  his  responsibilities,  Alfred  found 
that  his  best  armour  lay  in  his  work  and  in  his  books : — 


K  yf- 


AT  THE  TEMPLE  95 

'" Thank  God  for  books,"  said  Sydney  Smith,  "and  who  that 
has  known  what  it  is  to  depend  on  them  for  companionship,  but 
will  say  from  his  heart.  Amen  ? "  In  lone  country  houses,  where 
friends  are  few ;  in  crowded  city  streets,  amid  greetings  where 
no  kindness  is,  thank  God  for  books  !  Dearest,  best  of  friends — 
soothing,  comforting,  teaching,  carrying  us  far  away  from  the 
"  briars  of  this  working-day  world  "  ;  never  importunate,  never 
impatient,  may  we  learn  to  use  you  as  you  use  us.' 

These  words  were  written  by  Ainger  not  long  after  this 
period,  and  these  friends  on  the  shelves  did  not  fail  him  at  an 
hour  when  human  comradeship  was  powerless.  But  with  him 
the  arid  mood  of  sorrow  did  not  last;  his  need  of  human 
affection  was  too  strong. 

'How  pleasant  it  is  to  love  people !'  he  writes  in  a  letter  of  1868. 
'  I  often  get  a  strong  flush  of  comfort  out  of  these  great  words, 
"  Hereby  we  know  that  we  have  passed  from  death  unto  life 
because  we  love  the  brethren."  ' 

And  again  (after  a  visit  to  the  Atkinsons)  : — 

'  "  Then  do  fewest  words  suffice 
Wheu  many  words  are  felt  to  be  too  few," 

*  says  Henry  Tayloi',  and  whenever  I  take  leave  of  you  and  yours 
I  feel  how  true  they  are  .  .  . 

'  I  hope  you  all  get  on  well  and  do  not  miss  me  tou  much. 
Shake  up  Warren  and  Gibson  in  a  bag,  and  bring  out  the  perfect 
character.  Tell  the  Captain  to  make  no  more  jokes  lest  a  worse 
thing  befall  him.  And  for  yourself — touch  you,  and  we  may  spoil 
you — so  remain  as  you  were.     And  one  and  all  write  to  me.' 

Perhaps  it  was  especially  now,  that  the  remembrance  of  his 
own  little  family  made  him  tenderer  than  ever  towards  child- 
hood. It  would  seem  so  from  some  letters,  written  in  the 
midst  of  crowded  London  days,  to  a  little  twelve-vear-old  cirl, 
lying  ill  at  Sheffield. 

She  still  remembers  the  event  they  were  to  her,  the  feats 
that  he  performed  to  amuse  her  when  he  came,  the  sudden 
transformation  of  her  dull  sofa  into  a  world  of  fun. 

'  18  AV^ESTBOURNE  Square,  Wednesday,  Xov.  10. 
'  Mv  DEAR  Helen, — I   am  sure  you  know  how  sorry  I  am  to 
hear  of  your  being  unwell,  and  obliged  to  keep  quiet  in  the 


96  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

house ;  and  I  have  been  thinking  that  you  might  like  to  have  a 
letter  from  me  sometimes.  For  I  know  from  my  own  experience 
when  I  have  been  ill,  how  pleasant  it  is  to  get  letters,  and  to  be 
put  in  remembrance  of  one's  friends.  Your  mamma  has  kindly 
promised  to  let  me  know  from  time  to  time  how  you  are,  and  to 
hear  that  you  are  better  will  be  quite  sufficient  return  for  my 
letters  ;  if  indeed  I  needed  any  return  for  what  is  in  itself  a  great 
pleasure  to  me.  I  was  talking  about  you  only  yesterday,  for  I 
was  calling  on  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Hawksley,  in  Phillimore  Gardens. 
I  shall  see  them  again  to-morrow,  for  I  found  that  they  were 
going  to  hear  an  opera  which  I  am  very  fond  of,  called  Fidelia, 
by  Beethoven,  and  I  asked  them  to  let  me  take  a  seat  near  theirs  ; 
so  I  am  to  dine  with  them  and  then  go  with  them  to  the  opera. 
When  you  are  a  little  older,  your  mamma  will  take  you,  I  know,  to 
hear  it.  You  know  some  of  Beethoven's  music ;  and  everything 
he  wrote  is  great  and  pure  and  beautiful. 

'  And  now,  it  is  very  easy  to  promise  to  write  to  a  young  lady  : 
but  the  great  question  is  what  to  write  about.  For  living  as  we 
do  in  different  places  and  among  different  people,  how  am  I  to 
interest  you  by  telling  you  London  gossip  and  matters  that  only 
concern  myself.  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  this ; 
and  I  have  resolved  to  make  my  letters  more  interesting  by  tell- 
ing you  a  story  sometimes,  from  some  old  poet  or  other  writer 
whom  you  are  not  likely  to  have  read  for  yourself.  I  am  not  one 
of  those  clever  people,  like  the  French  cooks,  who  can  make  a 
pretty  and  exquisite  dish  out  of  nothing ;  so  that  I  dare  not  try 
to  write  a  letter  when  I  have  no  matter  of  my  own  to  start  with. 
However,  I  dare  say,  I  shall  be  able  to  do  something  ;  and  whether 
I  send  you  a  story,  or  some  verses,  or  some  other  kind  of  dish, 
you  must  give  me  credit  for  doing  the  best  I  can. 

'  So  this  letter,  to-day,  you  see,  is  a  kind  of  preface  ;  just  telling 
what  the  book  is  going  to  be  about,  and  apologising  for  the 
author's  want  of  ability.  And  you  see  I  am  very  cunning ;  for  I 
am  sending  the  preface  by  itself :  if  it  had  been  sent  with  some 
of  the  book  itself,  you  would  have  skipped  the  preface,  as  people 
always  do  when  they  read  a  printed  volume ;  and  now  you  will 
be  obliged  to  read  this  preface  ! 

'  Besides  I  am  tied  for  time  to-day  as  I  have  to  go  to  Hamp- 
stead  this  afternoon  ;  so  I  will  merely  add  that  I  hope  you  are 
feeling  pretty  well,  and  that  whatever  pain  and  weariness  you 
may  feel,  you  will  feel,  too,  how  good  and  loving  God  is  to  you, 
as   He  is  to  all  His  children.     For  He  gives  you  relations  and 


AT  THE  TEMPLE  97 

friends  who  love  you ;  and  I  often  think  that  such  love  is  the 
greatest  blessing  we  have,  next  to  the  love  of  God. — Ever,  dear 
Helen,  your  affectionate  friend,  Alfred  Ainger.' 


'  18  Westbourne  Square, 

'  Thursday,  November  26. 

'  My  dear  Helen, — I  am  afraid  my  letter  will  not  be  a  very 
long  one  this  week ;  and  if  I  have  not  time  to  tell  you  any  stories 
myself,  I  am  sending  you  a  book  full  of  stories,  which  you  must 
not  think  less  worth  reading  because  they  happen  to  be  true.  A 
Mr.  Freeman  has  written  for  young  people  a  history  of  England 
in  its  early  days  before  the  Norman  Conquest ;  and  Mr.  Freeman 
knows  more  about  this  particular  time  in  English  history  than 
any  other  living  man.  ...  A  taste  for  books  is  one  of  the  most 
blessed  tastes  that  God  has  given  us,  especially  when  health  is 
weak  and  we  are  obliged  to  stay  in  the  house,  and  let  our  bodies 
rest.  And  a  taste  for  books,  if  at  least  they  are  healthy  and  wise 
books,  is  a  taste  for  knowledge ;  and  knowledge  is  the  path  to 
wisdom,  which  is  itself  the  love  of  what  is  good  and  the  power  to 
choose  it  and  value  it  as  the  most  precious  of  our  possessions. 
And  history,  if  it  be  only  true,  is  to  my  thinking  the  most  inter- 
esting of  studies :  and  no  novel  or  story-book  gives  me  so  much 
pleasure  as  the  finding  out  what  actually  has  happened  to  those 
who  have  gone  before  us  in  the  world.' 

'18  Westbourne  Square,  W., 
'  Thursday,  March  2. 

'  It  is  really  like  Spring  to-day;  and  the  country,  I  have  no  doubt, 
is  just  ordering  its  Spring-clothes.  The  birds  will  be  building  in 
your  garden  I  should  think.  Don't  disturb  them  till  I  come. 
Look  about  for  the  cuckoos.  You  know  what  unprincipled  birds 
they  are.  They  watch  for  the  lady  and  gentleman  sparrow  to 
leave  the  nest ;  then  they  go  and  lay  two  eggs  there—  ring  the 
bell,  and  run  away.  And  so  they  are  enabled  to  get  their  family 
brought  up  at  other  people's  expense.     It  is  sadly  egg-otistical  ! 

*  By  the  way,  this  is  Ash  Wednesday.  I  hope  you  like  your  salt- 
fish.  It  is  very  nice  when  one  is  egg-sauce-ted.  Pray  excuse 
this  quite  unintentional  play  upon  words.  I  have  a  great  con- 
tempt for  any  one  who  makes  puns. 

'  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  your  Mamma  for  being  so  good  to 
Tom.     It  is  so  nice  for  him  to  have  a  pleasant  house  to  go  to ;  for 

6 


98  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  ATNGER 

he  sees  nothing  but  boys  at  the  Collegiate,  and  that  is  very 
insufficient  diet  for  the  intellect  and  affections.  If  he  talks  very 
broad  Yorkshire,  you  must  correct  him  ;  though  in  a  general  way 
I  am  only  too  thankful  if  he  talks  at  all,  for  he  is  a  silent  young 
gentleman.  I  wish  I  had  been  at  that  party — but  there  !  it 's  no 
use  to  repine.  I  would  have  dressed  up  as  a  Sheffield  clergyman, 
and  710  one  would  have  recognised  me  ! 

I  am  in  a  sadly  satirical  mood  to-day,  and  I  think  I  had  better 
stop  before  I  say  anything  too  bad.  Do  you  ever  see  Mr.  SchoU- 
hammer.-*  If  you  do,  tell  him  I  have  heard  Stockhausen  sing, 
and  it  has  been  an  epoch  in  my  life.  I  have  got  some  new 
Schubert  songs  to  try  over  when  I  come,  so  have  the  piano 
tuned. — Ever  yours,  (in  a  corner),  A.  A.' 

The  promised  story  of  Fidelio  arrived  duly,  told  with  the 
detail  and  the  sobriety  of  one  of  Lamb's  Tales  from  Shake- 
speare. He  was  fond  of  attempting  to  imbue  children  with  his 
own  love  of  music.  His  standards  were  severe,  even  with  the 
smallest  performer.  His  niece  recalls  a  visit  he  paid  her  at 
school,  and  how  she  proudly  sat  down  to  play  her  carefully 
prepared  Thalberg  variations  on  '  Home  sweet  Home.''  When 
she  had  done,  and  was  waiting  expectant, '  The  cooking  was 
better  than  the  meat,''  was  all  he  said,  and  after  his  departure, 
the  governess  asked  her  what  he  had  meant. 

It  was  in  these  years  that  he  first  learned  to  know  Sir  George 
Grove,  who  was  henceforth  to  be  a  conspicuous  person  in  his 
existence,  not  only  as  friend  and  host,  but  as  the  promoter  of 
the  Crystal  Palace  Concerts  and  the  Editor  of  Macmillan''s 
Magazine. 

'It  was,'  he  says,  'towards  the  close  of  1868  that  I  first  came 
to  know  George  Grove.  I  was  passionately  fond  of  music, 
although  then  very  ignorant  of  the  orchestral  and  chamber  works 
of  the  great  composers.  To  such  a  state  of  musical  destitution, 
the  Saturday  concerts  at  the  Crystal  Palace  were  a  revelation 
indeed.   .   .  .' 

'  Grove  was  at  that  time  nearly  fifty  years  of  age,  and  if  past 
the  prime  of  his  various  powers,  certainly  at  the  very  height  of 
his  enthusiasm.  What  struck  me  about  him  was  his  seeming 
boundless  capacity  for  work,  in  comparison  with  a  like  capacity 
for  interest  in  all  the  tastes  and  pursuits  of  all  his  friends,  notably 


AT  THE  TEMPLE  99 

of  young  men,  musicians,  or  other  artists,  especially  if  they  were 
poor,  or  perhaps  unhappy  in  their  family  surroundings.  Grove 
seemed  to  have  time  and  strength  for  everything.  He  haunted 
concerts  in  London,  as  well  as  at  Sydenham.  He  wrote  articles 
and  prefaces.  ,  .  .  He  apparently  read  everything  new  in  the 
artistic  or  literary  world,  yet  always  kept  himself  in  freshest 
touch  with  his  old  favourites,  Coleridge,  Lamb,  Tennyson.  .  .  . 
Added  to  all  of  which  he  was  a  humorist  and  a  raconteur  such  as 
one  seldom  met.  No  wonder  that  he  attracted  men  of  all  sorts, 
and  exercised  a  kind  of  fascination  over  the  young  and  aspiring. 
For  with  everything  that  he  thought  and  said  and  wrote,  was 
blended  that  charm  of  enthusiasm  which  kindles  love  as  well  as 
admiration.  .  .  .  The  figure  in  Avhich  Grove  most  often  recurs  to 
me  is  of  one  sitting  close  to  the  pianoforte  with  his  elbow  on  his 
knee  and  his  finger  along  his  cheek,  listening  with  rapt  admira- 
tion to  Anna  Li/le,  or  Leiermann,  or  Dass  sie  hier  gewesen.' 

Franz  Schubert,  the  writer  of  these  songs,  was  a  great  bond 
between  them — '  Schubert,  with  whose  works,'  as  Ainger  wrote, 
'  Grove's  name  will  be  for  ever  associated,  who  owes  an  incal- 
culable debt  to  Grove  for  the  spread  of  his  music  in  England.' 
No  one  who  heard  him  recount  it  can  forget  the  excitement 
with  which  he  used  to  repeat  the  story,  heard  from  Sir  George 
Grove"'s  lips,  of  how  Schuberfs  unfinished  Symphony  had  been 
discovered  by  Grove  himself,  put  away  on  a  dusty  shelf,  in  the 
Library  at  Vienna.  History  meant  little  to  Ainger  and  the 
discovery  of  a  new  world  would  have  had  less  power  to  move 
him  than  this  incident.  It  became  a  drama  when  he  described 
the  searching  in  the  cupboard,  and  the  first  unrolling  of  the 
score. 

The  thought  of  Schubert  pursued  him,  and  when  he  went 
abroad,  as  he  did  about  now,  it  was  to  'Schubert's  country,' 
the  Salzkammergut,  and  the  only  news  he  sends  thence,  is  that 
the  places  he  was  seeing  inspired  the  Ave  Maiia.  '  My  hostess 
is  a  charming  pianist,'  he  writes  later  from  a  house  in  England, 
'  and  the  sound  of  the  Beethoven  and  Schubert  is  always  in 
the  land.' 

From  the  Crystal  Palace  concerts  Alfred  used  often  to  go 
home  with  Sir  George  Grove,  whose  house  near  the  Crystal 
Palace  became  his  constant  haunt,  the  '  wooden-faced  cottage 


100         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

in  Lower  Sydenham,  which  we  used  to  call  the  G.G.  Block, 
after  one  division  of  the  seats  at  the  Handel  Festival.''  '  Often,' 
he  continues,  (in  his  own  reminiscences  of  Grove  ^),  '  have  I 
stayed  with  him  and  Mrs.  Grove,  from  the  Friday  till  the 
Sunday  morning,  and  written  my  Sunday  sermon  on  the  Satur- 
day morning  in  his  little  (rather  damp  and  underground)  study, 
in  a  chaos  of  books,  music,  prints,  and  photographs.** 

Through  '  G.'  Alfred  also  learned  to  know  his  new  friend's 
neighbours,  the  von  Glehns,  who  made  their  roomy  house,  Peak 
Hill,  at  Sydenham,  the  centre  of  a  delightful  society.  Mr. 
von  Glehn,  the  father,  w^as  a  Russian  from  the  Baltic  provinces ; 
his  wife  was  a  Scotswoman,  and  both  of  them  were  gifted 
people  of  warm  sympathies. 

Music  seemed  to  be  a  family  inheritance ;  so  were  all  gener- 
ous traditions,  whether  of  art  or  hospitality,  and  the  atmo- 
sphere of  their  home  seemed  made  for  Ainger,  who  speedily 
took  root  there.  Once  more  he  found  himself  part  of  a  large 
family  of  sons  and  daughters,  prominent  figures  in  the  social 
life  of  the  day,  and  quick  to  welcome  talent  while  it  was  still 
obscure.  Emanuel  Deutsch,  Hans  von  Billow,  Stockhausen, 
Sullivan,  were  their  guests  ;  and  here,  before  they  were  known, 
came  Hubert  Parry,  J.  R.  Green,  and  Mandell  Creighton,  who 
soon  after  became  engaged  to  the  youngest  daughter  of  the 
house.  Of  the  other  two,  Olga  and  Mimi,  both  full  of  gifts  and 
charm,  Alfred  was  the  constant  companion.  At  all  times  of 
his  life  he  was  dependent  upon  feminine  influence — we  use  the 
word  in  its  old  astrological  sense.  His  sensibilities  demanded 
a  soothing  and  benignant  power,  a  listening  ear  and  a  helping 
hand  ;  and  perhaps  no  man  since  Richardson  has  been  a 
greater  adept  in  the  art  of  friendship  with  womankind.  As 
time  went  on,  Mimi  von  Glehn,  the  refined  musician,  the 
harmonious,  hospitable-hearted  woman,  became  one  of  his 
closest  friends ;  they  made  music,  she  playing  to  him,  he 
singing.  The  air  was  full  of  fun.  He  evoked  it  together 
with  the  atmosphere  in  which  it  could  live.  Like  all  real 
humorists,  he  made  other  people  feel  creative.  In  the  acting, 
in  the  fooling  to  purpose,  to  which  he  treated  his  audience, 
*  Life  of  Sir  George  Groves  by  C.  L.  Graves,  p.  464. 


AT  THE  TEMPLE  101 

he  paid  them  a  subtle  compliment;  conveyed  to  them  with 
delicate  courtesy  that  they  were  essential  to  his  inspiration. 
He  was  not  only  at  home  at  the  von  Glehns"',  he  also  grew 
intimate  with  their  circle.  He  liked  to  dwell  on  those  days  : 
on  the  gay  nights  he  spent  at  Sydenham,  on  his  impromptu 
rushes  thence  to  St.  James's  Hall  in  company  with  Grove  and 
J.  R.  Green ;  on  the  winter  reading  of  Shakespeare,  which 
made  his  friends  sure  of  his  weekly  visit.  It  is  to  the  mother 
of  the  family  that  he  writes  of  these  : — 

'  Kind  friend,  beneath  whose  genial  roof 
The  wintry  hours  have  sped  so  fast, 
This  lonely  evening  adds  its  proof 
That  joys  may  be  too  bright  to  last. 

For  fifteen  weeks  a  friendly  train 
Around  the  social  board  have  met 
To  smile  at  Slender's  childish  vein. 
Or  weep  with  love-lorn  Juliet. 

No  winter  gale  has  power  to  touch 
The  sweetness  of  Verona's  spring  ; 
Our  private  griefs  seemed  small  to  such 
As  that  which  wrecked  Sicilia's  king. 

And  as  we  read  our  Shakespeare's  page 
Each  wound  of  time  found  healing  balm — 
The  blood  of  youth  ran  new  in  age — 
The  young  were  touched  with  age's  calm. 

But  ah  !  to-night  the  wind  is  chill 

And  all  the  cares  of  life  return  ; 

O  memory,  linger  with  us  still. 

And  Hope,  bring  forth  thy  lamp  and  burn.' 

Meanwhile  his  busy  professional  life  went  on.  He  had  by 
now  moved  from  the  FuUartons',  and  that  lonely  evening  when 
he  felt  the  wind  was  chill,  he  spent  in  the  lodgings  which 
often  witnessed  his  depressions.  Good  company  beguiled 
him,  but  directly  he  was  alone  the  sense  of  homelessness  came 
back  to  him.  He  went  to  chambers,  first  in  Tanfield  Court, 
the  Temple,  and  then  in  Spring  Street,  Paddington,  where 
he  took  up  his  abode  over  a  china-shop,  in  little  rooms  brim- 
ming over  with  books.  In  this  limited  space  he  contrived  to 
harbour  his  nephews  and  nieces  when  they  sometimes  paid 


102  LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

him  visits  in  their  holidays,  and  they  well  remember  his 
minute  arrangements — the  bliss  of  their  Crusoe  discomfort — 
the  long  expeditions  with  him  to  all  the  sights  of  London, 
his  figure  walking  quickly  before  them  threading  crowded 
streets  and  crossings. 

They  had  other  and  more  bewildering  memories :  of  him 
crouching  upon  the  hearthrug,  of  his  impenetrable  silences 
as  he  sat  there  in  a  fit  of  suffering,  bodily  more  than  mental, 
for  his  health  which  was  always  delicate  had  felt  the  recent 
strain  upon  it.  The  children  meant  much  to  him  in  these 
years  that  were  both  full  and  solitary — when  the  presence  of 
grief  was  still  with  him,  but  calmed  and  mellowed  by  time. 
There  is  but  one  poem  on  his  sorrow,  and  that  was  written 
by  his  sister's  grave  four  years  after  he  had  lost  her. 

'The  hills  are  white  with  snow, 
And  the  sun  is  bright  o'erhead. 
As  I  stand  with  heart  bowed  low 
In  homage  to  the  dead. 

And  a  pain  my  spirit  chills, 
But  a  hope  is  burning  high, 
For  the  snow  will  leave  the  hills 
And  the  8un  is  in  the  sky.' 


CHAPTER    VII 

LONDON    AND    ITS    FRIENDSHIPS 

1873-1876 

Alfred  Aingek's  luck  in  friendship  followed  him  to  the 
Temple.  In  1869,  Dean  Vaughan  became  Master,  and  a 
strong  sympathy  quickly  grew  up  between  him  and  his  Reader. 
Ainger  admired  his  chief  both  as  a  man  and  as  a  preacher. 
His  feeling  was  returned,  and  the  two  saw  a  good  deal  of 
each  other.  Every  Sunday  was  spent  with  the  Vaughans  at 
the  Master's  House,  which  became  a  home  to  him  twenty-five 
years  before  he  himself  went  to  live  there.  By  that  time  it 
already  held  for  him  many  memories  of  bygone  intercourse, 
and  so  did  the  Vaughans'  house  at  LlandafF  where  he  often 
spent  summer  holidays.  For  the  Dean  loved  good  talk  and 
good  literature,  and  any  one  who  promoted  them.  A  third 
friend  still  keeps  the  impression  of  the  two  men  standing 
absorbed  in  conversation,  their  lighted  bed-candles  in  their 
hands,  on  the  drawing-room  landing  at  the  Temple.  Some 
grease  fell  on  the  carpet  from  the  Dean's  slanting  candle. 
'  How  neat  he  spreads  his  wax,'  was  Ainger's  immediate 
comment — to  the  great  pleasure  of  Dean  Vaughan,  who  was 
not  above  remembering  Dr.  Watts  and  '  the  little  busy  bee.' 

Nor  did  any  one  more  fully  than  he  appreciate  Ainger's 
services  to  the  Temple ;  his  gifts  both  as  Reader  and  as 
preacher.  Of  his  reading  of  the  service  and  of  the  lessons 
those  who  have  heard  it  need  no  reminder,  and  it  is  impossible 
to  convey  an  idea  of  it  to  those  who  have  not.  The  low, 
clear,  vibrating  tones,  swift  to  change  and  to  thrill,  yet  kept 
within  due  limits,  seemed,  as  he  read,  to  be  one  with  his 
presence — fraught  with  spiritual  dignity.  And  his  voice  lent 
eloquence  to  his  sermons  apart  from  the  beautiful  English, 

103 


104        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

sober  and  significant,  in  which  he  clothed  them ;  apart,  too, 
from  the  exquisite  sense  of  quotation  which  became  their 
special  distinction.  Every  Sunday  afternoon  and  on  other 
occasions  also,  when  Dr.  Vaughan  required  it,  he  preached  to 
a  large  congregation  and  never  left  it  unimpressed.  Delicacy 
rather  than  force  of  thought,  practical  rather  than  intellectual 
truth,  were  the  characteristics  of  these  sermons,  as  they  were 
of  those  belonging  to  later  times.  The  personality  of  Christ — 
the  relation  to  Him  of  the  individual  soul — these  were,  then  as 
ever,  his  central  themes,  and  his  attitude  to  modern  criticism 
was  one,  not  exactly  of  hostility,  but  of  shrinking  distaste. 
He  himself  has  summed  up  his  deepest  feelings  on  these 
points  in  three  verses  that  he  wrote  about  now,  '  On  reading 
a  Volume  of  Modern  Sermons.' 

'  With  eager  knife  that  oft  has  sliced 
At  Gentile  gloss  or  Jewish  fable. 
Before  the  crowd  you  lay  the  Christ 
Upon  the  Lecture  Table. 

From  bondage  to  the  old  beliefs 
You  say  our  rescue  must  begin — 
But  / — want  refuge  from  my  griefs, 
And  saving  from  my  sin. 

The  strong,  the  easy,  and  the  glad 
Hang,  blandly  listening,  on  thy  word — 
But  I  am  sick  and  I  am  sad, 
And  I  need  Thee,  O  Lord.' 

'  Sick  and  sad '  he  often  was. 

'  Believe  it,  dear  child,  that  there  is  no  happiness  to  compare 
with  loving  and  trusting  God,'  he  wrote,  rather  later,  to  a  little 
girl  upon  her  confirmation.  '  It  is  veri/,  very  hard  to  achieve ; 
and  the  very  effort  to  do  it  will  only  throw  into  greater  pro- 
minence the  evil  and  sin  and  weakness  in  you  that  tries  to  shut 
God  out.  But,  oh — it  is  best  to  feel  and  knoiv  our  sin  and  our 
weakness,  because  we  may  be  certain  it  is  He  who  is  showing  it 
to  us.  ...  I  have  known  you  all  your  life,  my  child,  and  you  will 
not  mind  my  writing  thus  to  you.  And  do  not  be  hard  upon  me 
because  I  myself  so  sorely  need  my  own  good  advice.  With  all 
the  sin  and  evil  that  I  know  against  myself,  I  have  never  known 
any  real  happiness  that  did  not  come  to  me  through  remembering 
the  things  I  am  now  urging  upon  you.     God  bless  you.' 


LONDON  AND  ITS  FRIENDSHIPS     105 

In  his  letters  he  constantly  reiterates  his  need  and  his 
belief.  During  these  last  years  he  had  seen  much  sorrow 
among  his  friends,  had  more  than  once  watched  the  death  of 
young  people — the  kind  of  grief  which  is  most  apt  to  create 
doubt  and  despondency  in  those  who  witness  it.  But  in  him 
it  produced,  as  it  were,  an  elation  of  faith,  and  two  letters 
that  he  wrote  about  now  to  those  who  were  in  trouble  so 
much  express  the  same  kind  of  thought  that  it  seems  of 
interest  to  place  them  side  by  side. 

To  Mrs.  Bowles  on  the  death  of  her  brother. 

'Dear  Friend^ — What  can  I  say,  but  God  bless  you,  under  this 
heavy  sorrow  ?  By  a  blessed  law  of  His  Kingdom,  we  love  those 
most  for  whom  we  do  most ;  and  you  and  Robert  have  been 
everything  to  him  whom  you  have  lost,  and  made  all  the  differ- 
ence to  his  young  life ;  and  you  feel  towards  him  as  to  a  son. 

'  I  was  so  hopeful  for  him  when  I  left  his  bedside  for  the  last 
time  a  week  ago,  and  so  looked  forward  to  seeing  him  again,  and 
helping  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  the  sick-room,  but  God  has 
willed  it  otherwise,  and  we  know  that  He  is  Love. 

'What  a  mystery  it  is  that  a  life  should  be  taken  just  when  it 
has  been  receiving,  and  was  about  to  begin  bearing  fruit.  What  a 
waste  it  would  seem,  did  we  not  believe  that  no  preparation  is 
wasted  and  that  there  is  work  to  be  done,  if  not  in  this  world 
then  in  the  next. 

'  It  was  impossible  to  be  with  the  boy  and  not  love  him.  I  felt 
that  he  would  win  me  very  soon  to  a  strong  affection  were  I  with 
him.' 

To  Miss  Flora  Stevenson,  whose  niece  had  died. 

\  'There  is  surely  nothing  so  mysterious,  nothing  so  pathetic, 
wothing  so  stimulating  to  one's  own  faith  and  love,  as  the  death 
o?  the  young.  I  have  quite  lately  watched,  day  by  day,  a  young 
hte  fade  away,  and  have  felt  awe-struck  at  times,  as  one  who  had 
been  admitted  into  the  presence  of  deity.  ''Why  this  waste.''" 
we  ask.  And  we  know  in  our  calmer  moments  that  nothing  is 
wasted — and  that  the  life,  a  fragment  only,  has  yet  been  lived  to 
blessed  purpose,  if  only  in  the  lessons  it  has  taught.  ...  I  was 
indeed  glad  to  see  you  again  the  other  day.  It  is  one  of  the 
curses  of  an  imperfect  state  that  friends  are  continually  separated. 
We  shall  amend  that,  with  other  things,  some  day.' 


106         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

There  are  not  many  long  letters  of  this  period.  His  pen 
was  busy  with  other  tasks.  Between  1870  and  1895,  he 
became  a  constant  contributor  to  MacmillaiCs  Magazine ;  for 
though  his  first  article,  The  Uses  of  BooJcs,  appeared  as 
early  as  1859,  it  was  not  till  now  when  Grove  was  editor 
that  he  wrote  regularly  in  its  pages.  Most  of  his  articles 
had  been  lectures,  such  as  he  began  to  give  at  schools 
and  various  public  places,  and  nearly  all  of  them  were  on 
purely  literary  subjects.  Some  were  biographical,  some 
critical.  His  own  conceptions  of  a  critic'^s  function  he  has 
summed  up  himself  in  that  first  paper  of  1859. 

'  Of  those  who  do  think — and  the  practice  has  rather  gone  out 
of  late — there  are  a  few  who  think  for  themselves,  and  a  great 
many  who  think  for  the  benefit  of  others.  These  last  are  some- 
times called,  for  convenience,  critics.  All  works  must  fii*st  pass 
through  their  furnace  before  they  are  fit  for  the  general  reader, 
who  pays  his  fivepence  cheerfully  for  the  Weekly  Rasper,  and  gets 
a  vast  variety  of  opinions  for  his  money.  In  a  spare  ten  minutes 
he  has  the  opportunity  of  reading  what  another  has  written  in 
ten  days  concerning  a  work  which  has  occupied  a  third  party 
perhaps  as  much  as  ten  years.  How  admirably  is  labour  shortened 
nowadays !  As  we  pay  an  architect  to  build,  so  we  pay  a  critic 
to  think  for  us ;  and  so  considerate  it  is  of  the  critics  always  to 
extract  the  faults  of  a  book,  and  leave  the  general  reader  to  find 
the  beauties.  Sometimes  there  is  a  notice  in  the  shop-windows 
— "A  few  improvers  wanted."  It  must  certainly  come  from  an 
author  who  is  wanting  critics.  .  .  .  Ah  me  !  who  would  be  a  critic 
by  choice,  if  he  had  but  the  chance  of  being  only  a  common 
reader.  .  .  .  Amid  so  much  deprivation,  it  is  consoling  to  think 
that  the  critic  usually  contrives  to  retain  his  spirits.  It  has  even 
been  noticed  that,  by  some  beautiful  provision,  the  more  faults  he 
has  to  find,  the  merrier  he  is.     Like  Ophelia — 

"  Thought  and  affliction,  passion,  hell  itself. 
He  turns  to  favour  and  to  prettiness." 

Thus  is  there  compensation  in  everything. 

'  My  friend  W.,  with  whom  I  was  the  other  day  looking  over  a 
review  of  a  friend's  book  which  the  reviewer  was  mangling  with 
the  highest  enjoyment,  said  he  was  in  hopes  now  that  we  were 


LONDON  AND  ITS  FRIENDSHIPS     107 

returning  to  the  good  old  Aristophanic  school  of  criticism.  He 
said  he  would  see  all  reviews  abolished  and  have  farces  substituted 
instead ;  and  how  excellent  it  would  be  to  see  Carlyle  held  up 
between  heaven  and  earth  in  a  clothes-basket,  and  Bulwer  Lytton 
and  Sheridan  Knowles  weighed  against  each  other  in  scales.  W. 
went  on  to  say  that  criticism  was  not  nearly  so  successful  as 
witticism,  and  that  if  Shakespeare  had  lived  in  our  time  he  would 
have  seen  that  levity,  not  brevity,  was  the  soul  of  wit.  He  is  a 
sad  wag,  W.,  and  always  will  have  his  joke. 

'  Almost  all  criticism  is  too  minute  and  too  partial.  Hence  it 
fails  to  exhibit  any  but  a  most  imperfect  view  of  its  subject.  It 
takes  a  full-blown  rose,  and  after  examination  presents  to  the 
reader  a  heap  of  petals  without  form  or  perfume.  The  critic  has 
used  his  eye-glass,  and  sometimes  to  the  injury  of  his  eyes.  For 
this  reason  it  were  well  if  we  never  read  the  review  of  a  book  till 
we  had  read  the  book  itself.  Then  let  us  compare  our  impressions, 
if  it  may  be,  with  the  large  and  revei'ent  judgment  of  a  fuller 
knowledge  than  our  own.  ...  To  understand  a  great  writer,  as 
to  understand  Nature,  we  must  yield  our  prepossessions.  When 
we  read  we  lose  much  by  not  standing  side  by  side  with  the 
writer.  That  in  which  persons  differ  essentially,  is  not  in  the 
amount  of  knowledge  they  possess,  but  in  the  point  of  view  from 
which  they  look  at  things.  With  different  centres  we  have 
different  circumferences.  When  the  centres  of  reader  and  writer 
are  very  far  apart,  they  live  in  separate  worlds.  To  understand 
some  writers  we  must  change  our  planet  and  wait  jiatiently  till 
we  are  acclimatised.  .  .  .  There  is  a  class  of  readers — and  a  large 
one  too — who  like  to  find  in  books  rather  what  they  know  already 
than  what  they  have  yet  to  learn.' 

This  was  certainly  never  Alfred  Ainger's  foible,  tliough  he 
may  sometimes  have  gone  near  '  liking  to  find  in  books  rather 
what  he  loved  already  than  what  he  had  no  mind  to  love,' 
and  thus  limited  his  vision.  But  he  generally  avoided  this 
danger  by  reading  only  what  he  cared  for,  and  was  therefore 
capable  of  judging,  a  fact  which  limited  his  range,  but  gave  a 
fine  flavour  to  his  verdicts.  None  was  a  better  connoisseur  of 
the  bad  reader  than  he  was. 

'  There  are  those,'  he  wrote,  '  who  read  to  kill  time,  as  a  refuge 
— oh,  shame  !  shame ! — from  themselves.  There  are  those  who 
read  because  some  work  is  in  fashion,  and  it  were  bad  taste  not  to 


108        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

be  able  to  talk  of  it.  There  are  those  Avho  read  in  order  to  give 
the  public  the  benefit  of  their  judgment — those  mysterious  men, 
the  critics.  There  are  those  who  read  indiscriminately  with 
morbid  wideness  of  taste,  as  the  savage  devours  earth.  Lastly, 
there  are  those  who  read  little,  but  with  discernment ;  whose 
books  are  their  honoured  friends — "  the  souls  who  have  made 
their  souls  wiser."  .  .  . 

'  But  there  still  remains  a  question  whether  the  craving  for 
books  may  not  be  a  disease,  and  whether  we  may  not  live  too 
little  in  ourselves,  and  too  much  in  others.  The  professor,  whose 
young  friend  boasted  that  he  read  ten  hours  a  day,  inquired  with 
amazement,  "  Indeed,  then  when  do  you  think  ? "  The  old  man 
was  right.  The  master  who  sees  a  pupil  with  idle  hands,  and 
fears  that,  being  without  a  book  he  is  losing  his  time,  might  not 
unreasonably  hope  that  his  other  pupil,  who  is  never  without  a 
book,  is  not  losing  his  thoughts.  "It  is  hard,"  Orlando  says,  "to 
see  happiness  through  another  man's  eyes."  It  is  also  unprofitable 
always  to  see  things  reflected  in  another  man's  mind.  .  .  . ' 

His  conviction  that  the  reader  and  the  critic  are  necessary 
to  one  another,  that  only  together  they  can  produce  the 
atmosphere  in  which  literature  can  grow,  was  one  that  he 
tried  to  embody  in  his  own  attitude  towards  books.  He  had 
ample  opportunity  now  for  testing  his  views.  He  was  meeting 
writers  and  scholars  of  all  sorts  at  many  well-known  houses, 
but  more  especially  at  Knapdale,  Tooting,  the  home  of 
Alexander  Macmillan.  In  its  large,  leisurely  rooms,  or  in  its 
spacious,  old-world  garden,  there  gathered  together  informally 
the  mtn  and  women  of  note  and  the  young  promise  of  the 
day — authors,  poets,  painters,  English  and  French,  whether 
they  came  from  Oxford  or  fresh  from  the  ranks  of  the 
Impressionist  artists.  Of  one  such  gathering,  in  May  1874, 
Malcolm  Macmillan,  a  son  of  the  house,  jotted  down  a  record 
for  the  benefit  of  his  absent  sister. 

'  The  great  A.  A.,'  it  runs,  '  was  in  his  most  prolific  vein.  I 
could  hear  Mr.  Hughes  ringing  with  laughter  as  they  took  the 
lawn  together.  .  .  .  After  tea  Sara  Carmichael  played  some  less- 
known  nocturnes  of  Chopin's,  one  solemn  one  in  particular.  Mr. 
Ainger  was  in  raptures.  It  was  a  most  pleasant  piano  revel.  (A 
piano  revel  includes  all  the  gracious  suavity  of  artistic  enthusiasm 


LONDON  AND  ITS  FRIENDSHIPS     109 

as  well  as  the  playing.)  ..."  I  suppose  you  can't '  taste  Wagner 
in  sips,'  as  Dick  Swiveller  observed  to  the  Marchioness  about 
beer/'  said  Mr.  Ainger. 

'"Hutton  won't  leave  vivisection  alone.  It's 'cut  and  come 
again.'  At  least  the  vivisectors  go  on  cutting  and  he  goes  on 
coming  again,"  he  said  later  on.  .  .  . 

'Ainger's  taste  and  humour  are  stamped  with  the  constant 
working  of  exquisite  selection  and  the  interpretative  assistance  of 
a  voice  and  manner  suffused  with  rich  enjoyment  and  a  sort  of 
melodious  rumination.' 

At  the  Macmillans',  for  nearly  twenty  years  to  come,  Ainger 
was  a  loved  and  loving  guest,  one  of  the  leaders  of  their 
society,  yet  perhaps  most  welcome  when  alone  with  them.  In 
the  summer  he  often  stayed  with  them  for  several  weeks  on 
end,  reading  plays,  generally  Shakespeare's,  into  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning.  And  sometimes  when  his  happy  hearers 
discovered  it  was  late  and  prepared  to  go  to  bed,  Ainger, 
excited  by  Shakespeare — and  himself — would  hold  them  by 
moonshine  antics,  breaking  forth,  Puck-like,  into  a  shadowy 
dance,  swift,  graceful,  unreal,  which  seemed  part  of  the 
witching  hour.  After  such  rare  exhibitions  of  this  accom- 
plishment— his,  it  will  be  remembered,  from  babyhood — he 
would  show  an  added  dignity  of  bearing  which  forbade  any 
reference  to  them,  and  woe  betided  those  who  asked  him  to 
repeat  them.  Yet  he  kept  his  fantastic  power  of  twisting  his 
limbs  into  any  shape,  although,  as  time  went  on,  he  ceased  to 
exhibit  his  skill. 

His  friendship  for  Alexander  Macmillan  was  extended  to 
his  family :  to  his  little  girls,  Maggie  and  Olive,  as  well  as  to 
his  sons,  Malcolm  and  George,  then  in  their  early  manhood. 
The  brilliant  literary  promise  of  the  elder,  Malcolm,  made 
a  special  bond  between  him  and  Ainger,  and  it  was  with  these 
two  that,  in  the  early  seventies,  he  made  his  first  trip  to  Italy. 

'My  two  dear  youug  ladies,  I  tell  you  no  story 
When  I  say  that,  tho'  absent,  you  're  near  to  us  still ; 
For  Maggie  is  seen  in  the  Lake  Maggiore, 
And  Olive  is  smiling  from  ev'ry  green  hill.' 

So  he  wrote  to  the  sisters  at  Knapdale.      But  he  was  no 


110         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

traveller,  and  has  left  no  letters  about  the  journey ;  the  only 

thing  we  know  of  his  stay  in  Florence  is  that  he  was  bent 

upon   finding    the    house   of   Walter   Savage   Landor.      He 

showed  himself  here,  as  elsewhere,  the  determined  votary  of 

association,  for  he  had  not  the  spirit  of  adventure  which  lures 

so  many  abroad,  and  the  upheaval  of  journeys  did  not  suit 

him.     The  visits  that  he  sometimes  paid  to  Switzerland  and 

Germany  were  either  for  health,  or  to  see  his  sister  Marianne, 

who  settled  first  at  Heidelberg,  then  at  Stuttgart — but  of 

these  also  there  remains  no   written  memorial.     There  was, 

however,  one  expedition  to  which  he  always  looked  back  as 

among  the  great  pleasures  of  his  life.     This  was  a  trip,  in 

1873,  to  Bonn,  to  join  Sir  George  Grove  at  the  Schumann 

Festival.     In  after  days  he  loved  to  recall  every  incident  of 

this  summer  time  :  '  G.'s  ■"  welcome — the  glories  of  the  music — 

the   sight  of  Brahms  in  a  garden  by  the  Rhine — his  own 

wanderings  by  the  river  loved  of  Beethoven  and  Schumann — 

his  visit  to  Schumann's  grave  and  the  verses  that  he  made 

there. 

'  When  the  soul  with  sorrow  ladeu 
Hears  no  answer  to  its  moan 
In  the  jocund  voice  of  Haydn 
Or  Mozart's  pellucid  tone. 

When  our  Schubert's  magic  lyre 

Fails  to  lead  us  at  its  will, 
And  the  deeps  of  our  desire 

E'en  Beethoven  cannot  still. 

When  the  mists  that  bound  things  human 

We  have  sought  to  pierce  in  vain — 
Then  we  turn  to  thee,  oh  Schumann, 

Bid  thee  sing  to  us  our  pain. 

For  there's  rapture  in  thy  sadness 

And  such  joy  in  thy  despond — 
And  thy  drifting  clouds  of  madness 

Cannot  hide  the  blue  beyond. 

Thy  revolt  can  teach  endurance  : 

And  the  spirit  sore  oppressed 
In  thy  fears  can  find  assurance. 

In  thy  restlessness  its  rest. 


LONDON  AND  ITS  FRIENDSHIPS     111 

From  thy  bitter  draw  we  sweetness. 

And  a  peace  from  out  thy  strife, 
And  a  vision  of  completeness 

Broods  above  thy  maimed  life. 

Then  no  funeral  thoughts  be  ours. 

Take  these  funeral  wreaths  away — 
Leave  the  grass  to  God's  own  flowers 

And  the  glory  of  the  day. 

For,  O  pilgrim  friends  who  wander 

To  this  lonely  artist  shrine — 
It  is  Sunday ' — and  see  yonder 

Flows  the  blue  unchanging  Rhine.' 

One  great  delight,  yet  untouched  on,  Alfred  Ainger  had  in 
London :  he  was  an  impassioned  playgoer,  to  such  plays  as 
suited  his  taste.  In  these  earlier  days  his  fancy  found  food  in 
plenty,  for  he  often  went  to  judge,  even  when  he  did  not 
greatly  enjoy.  Charles  Kean,  Robson,  Compton,  Alfred 
Wigan,  Henry  Irving,  Arthur  Cecil,  and  the  wholesome  plays 
in  which  they  acted,  were,  each  in  their  turn,  not  so  much  a 
relaxation  as  an  elemental  part  of  his  London  life.  He 
identified  himself  with  the  actors  as  only  a  born  actor  can. 

*  He  was '  (says  his  old  friend,  R.  C.  Browne)  '  a  delightful  com- 
panion at  the  theatre.  His  society  gave  a  keener,  more  subtle 
relish  to  those  pleasures — his  attitude  was  that  of  quiet  expect- 
ancy, not  anticipating  but  receiving  what  might  come,  thoroughly 
ready  to  enjoy  it,  but  steadily  referring  all  that  claimed  accept- 
ance or  admiration  to  that  calm,  inexorable  judgment  of  his.  He 
had  an  alert  perception  of  the  absurd.  He  detected  it  under 
however  imposing  or  brilliant  a  disguise.  On  the  first  night  of 
the  Winter^s  Tale,  when  Charles  Kean  dazzled  the  town  with  the 
contrasting  splendour  of  Magna  Gi'aecia  and  Bithynia — into  which 
Shakespeare's  Bohemia  was  for  the  nonce  transformed — he  refused 
to  allow  the  pomp  and  pageantry  to  conceal  from  him  the  thin 
and  ragged  poverty  of  the  dramatic  pi'esentment.  When  "Time 
as  Chorus  "  suggested  the  enquiry  : 

' "  If  ever  you  have  spent  time  worse  ere  now,"  he  remarked 
sollo  voce,  "  Hardly  ever,  I  think." 

1  '  Madame  Joachim's  singing  of  Schumann's  "Sonntags  am  Rhein"  was  one 
of  the  most  touching  incidents  of  the  Festival,'  was  Ainger's  own  note  appended 
to  these  lines. 


112         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'Neither  could  the  best  acting  reconcile  him  to  a  badly  con- 
structed or  improbable  play.  In  such  a  case  he  would  be  restless 
aud  uncomfortable — not  to  say  cross — even  if  his  favourite  Robson 
were  on  the  stage.' 

Ainger's  dramatic  sympathy  was  creative — the  most  creative 
quality  he  had ;  it  became,  as  we  have  said,  a  kind  of  self- 
identification,  and  reproduced  itself  under  many  forms.  His 
imitations  of  Kean,  Robson,  Wigan,  were  inimitable — no 
parodies,  but  the  men  to  the  life.  And  as  some  musicians  can 
evoke  a  whole  orcliestra  on  a  piano,  so  could  he  recreate  a 
whole  comedy  in  its  various  scenes  and  characters.  There  was 
no  need  to  go  to  the  play  for  those  who  could  hear  him  read 
'  Still  Waters,'  or  '  The  Wandering  Minstrel,'  or  '  To  Parents 
and  Guardians,'  in  which  the  part  of  the  shabby,  high-souled 
French  master  gave  scope  to  his  powers  of  pathos.  It  was 
about  now  that  he  first  learned  to  know  Lady  Martin,  the 
Helen  Faucit  of  the  stage.  To  her  Rosalind,  her  Beatrice, 
her  Juliet,  he  soon  became  Touchstone  and  Benedick,  Romeo 
and  the  Nurse;  for  there  were,  during  several  years,  frequent 
readings  between  them  at  her  house,  heard  only  by  a  little 
group  of  friends. 

Lady  Martin  was  one  of  the  few  actresses  about  whom  he 
was  enthusiastic ;  later.  Miss  Rehan  was  another,  and  he  went 
almost  every  night  to  the  plays  of  the  Daly  Company — his 
Daly  service,  as  he  called  them.  '  No,  I  cannot  possibly  go 
to-night,'  he  once  firmly  responded  to  a  friend  who  had 
pressed  him  to  come  with  him  to  see  As  Von  Like  It  for  the 
third  or  fourth  time.  But  a  few  hours  afterwards,  when  the 
same  friend  entered  the  theatre,  the  first  person  he  beheld  was 
Ainger.  '  When  I  got  home  I  found  a  seat  waiting  for  me, 
and  I  had  not  the  heart  to  refuse  it,'  he  said.  This  was,  how- 
ever, in  after  times  and  an  exception.  His  usual  theatrical 
experiences  then  were  not  so  happy  as  in  old  days ;  the 
problem-play  bored  or  disgusted  him ;  smartness  of  speech 
stung  his  taste.  To  performances  of  Shakespeare  he  always 
went,  because  no  one,  he  said,  should  lose  an  opportunity  of 
hearing  Shakespeare's  language  spoken,  however  bad  the  actors 
might  be.     But  modern  stage  realism,  like  all  effectiveness, 


LONDON  AND  ITS  FRIENDSHIPS     113 

jarred  upon  him,  and  he  often  came  away  oppressed.  From 
its  earliest  manifestations,  refined  when  compared  to  what 
followed,  he  lifted  up  his  wit  against  it,  and  he  protested 
in  rhyme  against '  The  first  appearance  of  the  real  hansom  cab 
at  Drury  Lane  Theatre'  (in  The  Streets  of  London). 

'  Ho     for  Art  and  Education — 
Ho  !  for  Progress  (a  la  Crab) — 
Have  you  heard  the  new  Sensation  ? 
Have  you  seen  the  Hansom  Cab  ? 

Never,  Drury,  was  thy  stage  meant 
For  this  "  most  unkindest "  stab — 
They  have  offered  an  engagement 
To  a  Cabman — and  his  Cab. 

Where  we've  wept  with  Juliet's  sadness — 
Heard  Mercutio  or  Queen  Mab — 
Where  we've  marked  Ophelia's  madness — 
There  to-day 's  a  Hansom  Cab. 

Here  we've  seen  the  Hags  appalling 
Make  the  gruel  "  thick  and  slab  " — 
Here  we  've  heard  King  Richard  calling. 
For  a  horse — but  not  a  cab. 

Gone — Sir  Toby,  Slender,  Shallow, 
Launce  with  "  stony-hearted  "  Crab, 
Shakespeare's  touch  e'en  curs  could  hallow  ; 
Not  e'en  his — a  Hansom  Cab. 

Touchstone,  Trinculo,  all  vanished — 
Hushed  the  jester's  fluent  gab — 
"  For  oh,  the  hobby-horse  "  is  vanished — 
Modern  taste  demands — the  Cab. 

Close  the  idle  Panorama, 

All  is  gone — and  on  a  slab 

Let  us  write  "  Here  lies  the  Drama. 

Knocked  down  by  a  Hansom  Cab."  ' 

He  also  protested  in  prose. 

*  So  long,'  he  writes,  '  as  we  care  to  see  tinsel  and  fine  clothes, 
we  shall  see  our  noblest  w-riters  presented  to  us  in  garbled 
extracts,  as  vehicles  for  scenery  and  costume.  The  evil  was 
beginning  to  show  itself  in  Rome  when  she  was  on  the  eve  of 
her  decline.     It  is  impossible  for  Englishmen  not  to  think  with 

H 


114         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

delight  of  those  rude  times  when  the  strolling  players  acted 
Hamlet  in  the  country  barn.  It  must  have  been  with  much  the 
same  feelings  that  the  educated  Roman  of  the  Augustan  age 
thought  of  the  time  when  the  Athenians  thronged  beneath  the 
blue  sky  to  listen  to  the  words  of  Sophocles  and  Aeschylus.  Let 
us  only  be  thankful  that  the  great  poets  are  ours  to-day  and 
for  ever,  and  that  no  stage,  however  degraded,  can  take  them 
from  us.' 

His  conception  of  the  function  of  the  drama  was  serious, 
though  not  overstrained. 

'  The  place,'  he  said,  '  that  the  minor  theatre  occupies  in  the 
education  of  the  people,  seems  to  be  that  it  rescues  them  from 
pleasures  that  are  merely  sensual.  Such  a  place  is  perhaps  not  a 
high  one ;  but  it  is  a  fact,  which  is  too  often  forgotten,  that  until 
there  is  awakened  in  the  people  a  love  for  something  besides 
mere  sensuality,  the  teacher  will  seek  to  approach  them  in  vain. 
The  world  of  fiction  is  not  a  barren  one.  Having  reached  it  now, 
the  man  will  more  readily  listen  to  invitations  from  other  worlds, 
new  and  unsuspected.' 

The  deterioration  of  the  stage  Ainger  largely  ascribed  to 
the  false  position  of  the  actor.  And  here  his  conclusions  were 
unexpected.  Far  from  laying  down,  as  one  might  suppose, 
that  the  actor  should  live  for  his  art,  away  from  the  tempta- 
tions of  society,  he  believed  that  the  best  dramatic  artist  was 
also  the  best  man  of  the  world. 

'  In  the  actor's  px'ofession,'  he  wrote,  '  what  needs  toning  down 
is  the  personal  element.  Of  too  many  of  them  in  all  time  it  must 
be  admitted — we  are  sure  that  the  best  among  them  will  be  the 
readiest  to  admit  the  truth — that  their  besetting  temptation  is 
that  expressed  in  the  Laureate's  lines — 

"  It's  always  ringing  in  your  ears, 
'They  call  this  man  as  good  as  me.'" 

'  Hitherto  there  has  been  some  excuse,  or  at  least  explanation, 
of  this  in  the  gulf  which  has  separated  the  actor  from  ordinary 
society.  His  personal  supremacy  became  his  compensation  for 
other  things  that  were  denied  him,  and  his  defence  against  the 
educated  world's  contempt  for  his  profession.  But  as  the  dignity 
of  that  profession  rises,  and  with  it  the  social  position  of  the 


LONDON  AND  ITS  FRIENDSHIPS     115 

actor,  the  desire  for  personal  supremacy  ought  to  yield  to,  or  at 
least  be  tempered  by,  other  gains.  Pride  in  the  profession  and  a 
sense  of  its  worthiness  .  .  .  ought  to  take  the  place  in  some 
degree  of  less  ennobling  aims.  But  among  other  reforms,  there 
is  one  which  in  any  case  ought  to  be  early  introduced.  An  actor 
should  not  have  to  play  every  night ;  or,  if  a  continuous  "  run  "  of 
a  certain  piece  is  necessary,  it  should  be  followed  by  a  period  of 
comparative  repose,  or  at  least  of  alternations  of  leisure  evenings. 
It  is  only  so  that  the  actor  can  fill  his  place  in  some  measure  in 
ordinary  society,  and  obtain  the  benefit  of  taking  friendly  and 
wholesome  part  in  the  common  interests  of  the  world,  among 
which,  after  all,  are  fostered  the  best  and  most  healthy  develop- 
ment of  human  character,  and  therefore  the  conditions  which  go 
to  make  art  also  wholesome  and  fructifying.' 

This  was  a  characteristic  judgment;  Ainger  was  always  an 
advocate  of  the  obvious  and  the  average.  He  was  also  an 
advocate  of  the  amateur  element  as  essential  to  the  professional 
actor.  This  was,  if  we  may  use  so  solemn  a  word,  his  message 
to  the  stage,  and  nowhere  has  he  better  expressed  it  than  in 
his  early  criticism  of  Dickens  as  a  comedian. 

It  serves  as  an  epitome  of  so  much  he  felt  and  believed,  so 
much  he  himself  practised  in  his  art  of  interpretation,  that  it 
seems  worth  quoting  at  some  length. 

'To  say  that  his  acting  was  amateurish,  is  not  necessarily  to 
disparage  it.  No  one  who  heard  the  public  readings  from  his 
own  books  which  Mr.  Dickens  subsequently  gave  with  so  much 
success,  needs  to  be  told  what  rare  natural  qualifications  for  the 
task  he  possessed.  Fine  features  and  a  striking  presence,  with  a 
voice  of  great  flexibility,  were  added  to  a  perfect  mastery  over 
the  sense  of  his  author,  because  that  author  was  himself.  But  it 
is  certain  that  many  a  low  comedian  would  have  made  the 
character  of  Sam  Weller,  for  instance,  more  telling  than  it  proved 
in  the  hands  of  its  originator.  Many  persons  will  remember  what 
a  hush  of  expectation  used  to  take  possession  of  the  entire 
audience,  when  in  the  trial-scene  from  Pickwick,  the  crier  of  the 
court  said,  ''Call  Samuel  Weller,"  and  that  immortal  worthy 
stepped  into  the  box  ;  and  what  a  palpable  feeling  of  disappoint- 
ment succeeded  his  first  words  as  spoken  by  Mr.  Dickens.  .  .  . 
Certain  it  is  that  nearly  every  one  of  the  audience  thought  that 
the  reader  had  in  this  respect  unaccountably  failed  ;  and,  as  we 


116        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

have  said,  many  a  low  comedian  without  a  tithe  of  Mr.  Dickens's 
genius  or  knowledge  of  human  nature  would  have  better  satisfied 
the  general  expectation.  But  we  are  persuaded,  and  were  per- 
suaded at  the  time,  that  Mr.  Dickens  exhibited  a  fidelity  to  truth 
in  this  instance  more  really  artistic  than  in  his  imitations  of 
certain  familiar  types  of  character  such  as  Serjeant  Buzfuz  or 
Mrs.  Cluppins.  He  pi'esented  Samuel  Weller  as  having,  in  spite 
of  all  his  wit  and  readiness,  the  characteristics  of  the  class  of 
society  to  which  he  belonged.  People  had  forgotten  that  Sam 
Weller  was  a  boots  and  a  waiter,  and  that,  although  a  master  of 
chaff  and  slang,  he  was  not  a  professional  clown ;  and  they 
expected  to  hear  from  the  artist  and  the  literary  man  what  they 
would  have  heard  in  a  dramatised  version  from  the  low-comedy 
actor.  In  this  respect  Mr.  Dickens,  as  an  actor,  was  amateurish  ; 
but  it  is  only  another  way  of  saying  that  he  was  not  of  the  stage, 
stagey.  If  there  was  a  certain  ease  and  handiness  which  the 
practice  of  the  art  as  a  profession  might  have  brought  to  him,  he 
at  least  escaped  the  tyranny  of  those  conventionalisms  which  the 
best  actors  (at  least  those  of  our  own  time)  have  not  been  able  to 
resist.' 

To  the  end,  the  dramatic  element  in  fiction  was  a  subject 
which  fascinated  Ainger,  and  the  stage  possibilities  of  great 
novelists  was  a  theme  that  he  liked  to  consider.  At  present, 
however,  his  criticism  on  art  was  mainly  expressed  in  verse 
and  contributed  to  Punchy  the  pages  of  which  were  sometimes 
now  enlivened  by  his  sallies. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

AT    HAMPSTEAD 

1876-1880 

A  NEW  chapter  of  existence  was  now  to  begin  for  Ainger. 
The  years  had  passed,  his  nieces  had  grown  up ;  it  was  time 
that  they  should  leave  school  and  have  a  settled  home.  He 
resolved  that  the  home  should  be  with  him,  and  made  what 
was  for  him  the  momentous  resolution  of  taking  a  house  of  his 
own. 

At  the  beginning  of  1876,  he  moved  to  his  old  haunt 
Hampstead,  to  look  about  him ;  there  he  found  what  he 
wanted  in  No.  2  Upper  Terrace — a  furnished  house  lying 
high,  with  a  view  of  the  still  unspoilt  heath.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  his  life  that  he  had  had  a  house  of  his  own,  and  he 
felt  a  child's  joy  in  every  part  of  it.  He  liked  to  show  off  its 
Morris  papers  and  Chippendale  furniture,  and  he  took  delight 
in  the  thought  that  he  was  making  a  home  for  his  'girls.' 
Their  rooms  were  filled  with  'surprises,'  always  a  favourite 
invention  of  his.  'Well,  do  you  notice  anything?'  was  his 
question  in  later  days  when  they  returned  home  after  an 
absence;  and  the  anything  was  perhaps  a  new  curtain,  or  a 
carpet,  the  laying  down  of  which  he  had  superintended  him- 
self, for  he  had  his  own  ideas  about  '  selvage '  and  hangings, 
and  the  trimming  of  lamps,  an  art  in  which  he  solemnly 
initiated  them  in  the  first  days  after  their  arrival.  His 
particularity  about  household  details  and  his  proud  sense  of 
proprietorship  were  prominent  qualities  in  him.  No  one  was 
fonder  of  committing  little  extravagances  in  the  name  of  his 
house.  They  generally  took  the  form  of  a  water-colour  or  a 
drawing,  and  when  he  feared  his  womankind  would  scold  him, 
he  would  wait  till  some  friend  was  present  and  carelessly  bring 
forth  his  bargain ;  or  he  placed  his  purchase,  as  if  by  chance, 

117 


118        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

in  a  favourable  light  in  the  drawing-room,  and  invariably 
betrayed  himself  by  the  joy  with  which  he  eyed  his  acquisi- 
tion. 

But  this  is  to  anticipate.  He  and  his  two  nieces  quickly 
settled  into  their  new  abode  which  they  just  filled — at  close 
quarters — a  fact  which  is  worth  recording  as  a  measure  of 
his  domestic  patience.  It  was  indeed  a  change  from  the 
freedom  of  his  bachelor  solitude  to  find  himself  sharing  a 
small  house  and  a  small  sitting-room  with  two  shy  young  girls, 
of  whose  ways  he  knew  very  little.  His  new  acquaintance  and 
next-door  neighbours.  Miss  James  and  Miss  Coates,  came 
before  long  to  his  rescue,  and,  together  with  the  more  distant 
'  Aunt  Mary,"  who  still  lived  in  Bayswater,  greatly  helped  him 
with  his  charges.  He  was  always  anxious  about  their 
observance  of  the  proprieties,  though  entirely  ignorant  when 
he  himself  broke  them.  One  day  as  rigid  as  Mrs,  Chapone 
upon  some  knotty  point  about  an  escort,  on  the  next  he  would 
ask  a  young  man  to  stay  and,  finding  he  had  to  be  absent  in 
town,  would  contentedly  leave  him  behind  as  sole  chaperon  of 
the  party.  '  I'm  afraid  I  must  go  into  London,  now,*  he  used 
to  say,  soon  after  two  o'clock,  to  any  guest  he  had  chanced  to 
ask  to  luncheon,  *  but  I  shall  quite  hope  to  find  you  on  my 
return  "* ;  and  to  his  nieces'  dismay,  his  '  hope '  was  generally 
realised,  though  he  did  not  come  back  till  six.  He  liked 
inviting  many  friends  now  that  he  had  a  home,  and  if  he  were 
in  vein  when  they  came,  he  would  take  up  some  book  of  poetry 
and  read  to  them  by  the  hour.  If  he  were  not,  he  would 
hardly  open  his  lips.  A  cloud  would  sometimes  descend  and, 
for  several  days  together,  he  seemed  unable  to  speak  to  those 
who  were  with  him.  Some  of  his  depression  was  doubtless 
caused  by  over-work  and  new  responsibilities,  and  by  the 
change  in  his  mode  of  existence ;  but  most  of  it  was  purely 
physical.  At  this  period,  especially,  he  went  through  much 
bodily  suffering,  which  generally  took  the  form  of  a  severe 
headache,  during  which  he  kept  a  strict  fast,  often  for  two 
days  running.  The  fatigue  of  going  to  and  from  London,  the 
increase  in  number  of  the  classes  that  he  held  and  the  lectures 
that  he  gave  in  order  to  make  a  sufficient  income,  his  con- 


AT  HAMPSTEAD  119 

stant  social  doings — all  put  a  strain  upon  his  slender  strength. 
After  his  heavy  work  on  Sundays,  which  detained  him  in 
London  till  late  evening,  he  was  frequently  laid  up,  and  next 
day  he  was  found,  his  head  on  one  side,  looking  at  himself  in 
the  glass.  '  I  think  I  am  rather  Mondayish  this  morning,'  he 
would  say,  a  speech  too  often  the  prelude  to  hours  of  bed. 
But  those  who  had  seen  him  in  the  midst  of  such  an  illness, 
speechless  with  prostration,  were  surprised  to  behold  him  a 
few  hours  later  emerging  gaily  from  his  sick-room,  to  sing 
Schubert  all  the  evening,  or  to  break  forth  into  fantastic 
escapades. 

It  is  almost  impossible  that  words  should  convey  Alfred 
Ainger's  exuberance  of  fun  at  this  time  without  making  him 
seem  grotesque — and  that  he  never  was.  There  was  no  end 
to  the  forms  his  drollery  would  take.  He  would  dance  a 
'fandango'  with  a  certain  lady  in  Hampstead,  a  fantastic 
dance  which  they  executed  with  fans  in  their  hands  ;  or  he 
would  practise  his  skill  as  a  ventriloquist  and  drive  down 
Bond  Street  imitating  the  loud  cry  of  a  cockatoo,  so  that  all 
the  passengers  looked  up  and  about  in  search  of  the  escaped 
bird,  while  he  sat  demure  and  apparently  silent  upon  the 
back  seat  of  the  carriage.  And  then  there  was  his  Christmas 
Harlequinade  which  he  would  not  stop  for  any  one,  so  that 
a  chance  visitor  once  entering  and  seeing  him  trip  up  on  the 
hearth-rug,  ran  forward  to  help  in  the  accident,  unconscious 
that  he  was  only  witnessing  the  classic  drama  of  Joey,  the 
Clown,  to  be  followed  by  that  of  Columbine. 

Those  who  saw  him  thus  could  perhaps  hardly  realise  the 
nature  of  his  daily  life.  It  was,  indeed,  of  the  soberest.  His 
wards  at  this  time  occupied  a  good  deal  of  his  leisure ;  he  took 
pleasure  in  guiding  their  taste  by  reading  to  them,  for  reading 
aloud  was  always  his  chief  method  of  teaching ;  and  he  enjoyed 
nothing  more  than  escorting  the  younger  girl  to  the  teachers 
of  music  and  singing  whom  he  chose  for  her.  He  also 
educated  them — sometimes  rather  severely — in  the  arts  of 
intercourse.  He  could  not  bear  indolence  or  apathy. 
'  Never  be  ashamed  of  not  knowing,  but  be  dreadfully 
ashamed  of  not  wanting  to  know,'  he  used  to  say  to  them. 


120         LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

To  words  and  modes  of  speech  he  was  almost  extravagantly 
sensitive.  Many  of  his  sudden,  seemingly  capricious  silences 
were  caused  by  some  expression  that  had  jarred  upon  his 
nerves — that  had,  so  to  speak,  stabbed  his  taste.  If  some 
one  said  'photo'  for  photograph,  or  tallied  of  'being  seedy,' 
it  was  enough  to  make  him  shun  their  society ;  and  his  nieces 
averred  that  if  they  had  used  these  terms,  he  would  not  have 
spoken  to  them  for  a  day.  To  real  faults  he  was  generally 
indulgent,  but  any  want  of  consideration,  especially  to  servants 
and  dependants,  met  with  no  mercy  at  his  hands,  whether  in 
big  things  or  in  trifles.  An  indistinctly  written  address  had 
a  special  power  of  irritating  him  ;  it  was,  he  said,  an  act  of 
selfishness  to  the  overworked  clerks  in  the  Post  Ofiice,  and  he 
would  make  his  nieces  re-write  illegible  directions,  or  copy 
them  out  himself  rather  than  despatch  them  as  they  were. 
His  courtesies  were  occasionally  rather  inconvenient,  and  his 
nieces  did  not  always  relish  toiling  up  Hampstead  Hill  at 
midnight  in  their  evening  dresses,  '  to  save  the  cab-horse,'  an 
effbri,  which  he  never  failed  to  make  himself,  however  tired  he 
might  be.  Nor  was  he  less  chivalrous  to  the  cabmen.  He 
chose  as  his  habitual  chariot  the  dirtiest  and  most  broken- 
down  fly,  hardly  safe  to  drive  in,  and  the  most  dilapidated 
coachman,  overpaying  him  largely,  and  refusing  to  be  taken 
by  any  driver  who  was  not  down  in  the  world.  The  fact  was 
that  he  grew  fond  of  all  those  to  whom  he  was  accustomed. 
Strangers  did  not  always  receive  the  same  forbearance  and  the 
sight  of  an  unknown  face  was  something  of  an  offence. 
His  usual  newspaper  man  once  brought  the  paper  to  his  house 
at  an  unusual  hour,  but  Ainger,  who  saw  him  advance  without 
recognising  him,  imperiously  waved  him  back  down  the  path, 
refusing  all  negotiations  ;  and  later,  at  tlie  Temple,  there  was 
a  more  fatal  occasion,  when  a  barrister  coming  to  the 
Master's  house  to  ask  the  Master  to  officiate  at  his  marriage, 
was  similarly  sighted  from  afar,  taken  for  a  beggar  and 
summarily  ordered  to  retreat.  None  would  have  been  more 
shocked  than  Ainger  at  this  breach  of  hospitality,  but  his  dis- 
like of  people  taking  liberties  was  almost  as  great  as  his 
generosity. 


AT  HAMPSTEAD  121 

The  shabby  fly  was  in  constant  requisition  at  Hampstead, 
for  there  was  seldom  an  evening  on  which  he  did  not  dine 
out.  Though  he  rejoiced  in  the  new  atmosphere  of  home, 
he  was  not  yet  as  domesticated  as  he  beliered,  and  his  friends 
claimed  him  as  they  were  wont.  But  when  it  came  to  bigger 
projects,  summer  holidays  and  country  invitations,  he  often 
had  to  refuse  them. 

'  We  are  at  present  without  plans  of  any  kind  ;  you  see  I  now 
have  encumbrances  and  I  can't  get  about  as  independently  as  of 
old,  when  I  enjoyed  what  somebody  called  "  the  desolate  freedom 
of  the  wild  ass."  ' 

Thus  he  wrote  to  a  friend  who  had  begged  him  to  come  and 
stay.  All  the  same,  his  nieces  used  to  try  and  count  up  how 
many  beds  he  slept  in  during  the  year,  and  they  were  never 
able  to  complete  the  computation. 

Voluntary  work  took  up  a  good  part  of  the  leisure  left  him. 
It  was  seldom  that  he  figured  as  a  civic  character,  and  it 
is  therefore  worth  recording  that  he  devoted  a  good  deal  of 
time  and  labour  to  the  public  library  at  Hampstead,  It 
included  several  rooms  and  was  intended  for  the  use  of  all 
classes,  but  especially  for  the  use  of  working-men,  for  whom  it 
made  a  sort  of  club.  The  kind  of  help  that  he  gave  there 
was  characteristic.  His  colleague  in  this  matter,  Sir  Henrv 
Holland  (now  Lord  Knutsford,  and  then  member  for  Hamp- 
stead) recalls  a  difficult  moment  when  it  was  found  that  the 
working-men  themselves  hardly  came  to  these  club-rooms  at 
all.  It  was  Ainger  who  discovered  that  some  of  them  did  not 
possess  '  best  coats,'  and  so  did  not  like  '  the  world '  to  see 
them  in  shabby  dress  going  in  at  the  public  entrance ;  and  his 
sympathetic  invention  of  a  back-door  finally  solved  the 
difficulty  and  filled  the  empty  rooms.  But  the  most  im- 
portant work  he  did  for  Hampstead  lay  in  the  impetus  he 
gave  to  its  concerts  and  the  way  that  he  raised  their  position 
till  they  ranked  among  the  best  in  London.  Soon  after 
settling  in  Hampstead,  he  became  prominent  on  the  Concert 
Committee,  advising  the  choice  of  music  and  of  artists.  And 
he  made  it  his  task  to  translate  the  German  songs  they  gave 


122         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  ATNGER 

into  English,  leaving  in  this  way  some  of  his  best-wrought 
lyrics  ;  for  his  lines,  though  keeping  close  to  the  original, 
were  poems  by  their  own  right. 

These  concerts  brought  him  into  contact  with  a  good  many 
fresh  people.  So  did  the  literature  classes  which  he  now 
held  at  Hampstead,  setting  papers  for  his  pupils  the  response 
to  which  linked  him  to  many  among  them.  The  humble  and 
the  timid  wanting  guidance,  the  intellectual  wanting  sym- 
pathy, found  in  him  an  unfailing  helper,  sparing  neither 
trouble  nor  patience,  ready  with  books  as  with  counsel.  He 
rapidly  became  a  solid  literary  influence,  moulding  the  taste 
of  his  neighbours  and  setting  the  literary  standard  wherever  he 
read  or  lectured. 

In  private  houses  he  read,  too,  more  especially  in  that 
of  his  old  friends  the  Misses  Johnston,  who  lived  on  in  the 
home  that  he  remembered  in  his  3'oung  days.  Hampstead 
was  still  a  world  apart — almost  like  a  University  town,  with  its 
own  characters  and  its  own  men  of  note,  among  whom  he  soon 
counted.  There  were  old  acquaintances,  there  were  new 
ones ;  Miss  James,  his  supporter  on  the  Concert  Committee ; 
Mrs.  Julian  Marshall,  another  musical  colleague  ;  Mrs.  Charles, 
the  author  of  the  Schbnbe7-g-Cotta  Family ;  the  Champneys, 
the  Holidays,  the  Spencer-Wells,  with  many  of  whom  he  grew 
intimate.  Chief  among  all  these  ties  was  his  friendship  with 
George  du  Maurier,  which  played  so  important  a  part 
in  his  life  that  it  demands  a  chapter  to  itself. 

Less  prominent,  but  meaning  much  to  him,  was  another 
friendship  that  he  formed  with  Miss  Margaret  Gillies,  a 
portrait-painter  of  past  repute,  then  nearly  eighty  years  old. 
She  had  belonged  to  the  Lake  School  circle,  had  taken  Words- 
worth's portrait  in  her  youth,  and  stayed  much  at  Rydal 
Mount.  She  fell  in  love  with  her  new  neighbour  as  only 
charming  old  ladies  can,  liking  to  receive  daily  visits  from 
him  ;  to  hear  his  fancy  play  round  her  memories ;  to  send  him 
delicate  little  notes ;  or  to  give  choice  dinners  at  which  he 
was  the  honoured  guest.  She  bestowed  on  him  her  greatest 
treasure,  a  water-colour  picture  of  Leigh  Hunt,  which  hung 
on  his  drawing-room  walls — one  of  his  favourite  possessions ; 


AT  HAMPSTEAD  128 

and  when  she  died  in  1887,  he  missed  her  sorely  as  one  of  the 
few  persons  who  revived  a  bygone  world. 

Perhaps  one  of  his  little  letters  to  her  best  finds  its  place 
here,  although  it  was  written  a  few  years  later. 

'Dalness  Lodge, 
'  Taynuilt,  Scotland. 

' .  .  .  Have  you  read  Carlyle's  Life,  I  mean  the  later  volumes 
by  Froude  ?  It  is  most  interesting  and  deeply  pathetic.  I  have 
also  read  the  new  book  Natural  Religion,  by  the  author  of  Ecce 
Homo,  which  I  don't  recommend  to  you,  for  it  is  depressing,  and 
practically  atheistic.  Art  and  Science  are  to  be,  it  seems,  the 
one  solid  religion  of  the  future.  If  so,  God  help  us  !  But  I 
don't  believe  it.  1  believe  that  this  worship  of  Science,  and  this 
pagan  pursuit  of  Beauty,  will  pall  sooner  or  later.  It  will  not 
avail  us  if  great  national  or  personal  chastisements  come  upon  us. 
.  .  .  Did  you  ever  know  (talking  of  artists)  one  of  the  name  of 
Edward  Burney,  a  half-brother,  I  believe,  of  Madame  D'Arblay. 
There  is  a  pretty  story  of  him  in  Lamb's  Essays,  "Valentine's 
Day." 

'God  bless  you,  dear  Friend.     I  hope  we  shall  meet  again 
before  very  long. — We  all  send  love  :  yours  affectionately, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

And  here  too  belongs  the  note  which   he  wrote   at   her 
death,  to  her  great  friend,  Mrs.  Lewes. 


'Callander  House, 
'Clifton,  July  23,  1887,  3  p.m. 


'Dear  Friend, — It  is  just  three  o'clock  and  my  heart  is  very 
full  of  you  all.  It  is  the  greatest  grief  and  disappointment  to  me 
that  I  am  not  with  you,  and  I  have  only  given  it  up  because 
there  was  risk  of  its  interfering  with  work  here  for  which  I  am 
responsible.  You  will  not  judge  me  severely,  nor  would  our  dear 
one  departed. 

'The  sorrow  is  a  great  one  to  me,  and  will  never  cease  to  be  a 
part  of  my  life,  so  I  pray  to  God.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  loss 
to  my  life,  and  to  my  spirit,  will  be  the  taking  away  from  me  of 
this  almost  daily  interest,  and  my  dear  girls  loved  her  as  much  as 
I  did,  and  I  know  she  was  truly  attached  to  them.  But  no  true 
and  real  joy  of  this  kind  ever  dies.     It  only  takes  new  forms  (like 


124        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

force,  so  the  ineu  of  science  tell  us)^  and  I  am  sui*e  that  the 
pleasure  and  profit  of  her  friendship  will  be  a  spring  of  strength 
to  me  all  my  days.  No  love,  thank  God^  is  ever  allowed  to  perish, 
or  to  become  fruitless. 

'  I  know  what  this  will  be  to  you  and  yours,  and  it  is  of  you  I 
am  thinking  as  I  write.  I  hope  you  will  let  me  come  over  to 
Crockhara,  to  the  Cottage,  when  I  am  back  in  London  and  you 
are  again  staying  there. — No  more.     Your  ever  faithful  friend, 

'Alfred  Aingeu.' 


But  this  is  to  forestall  time.  In  the  days  of  which  we  are 
speaking  he  still  had  ten  years  in  which  to  enjoy  Miss  Gillies''s 
company.  To  new  friends,  such  as  she  was,  he  turned  for  dis- 
traction, but  for  help  and  for  counsel  he  still  went  to  the 
old  ones.  The  following  letters  to  Miss  Thompson  show  the 
anxieties  that  troubled  him,  more  especially  in  1877,  when 
his  eldest  nephew,  Tom,  was  setting  off'  for  New  Zealand,  to 
make  his  first  start  in  life  there. 

'  2  Upper  Terrace, 
'  Thursday  Evening,  Oct.  19,  1876. 

*  Dearest  Mary, — I  almost  fear  you  won't  see  me  to-morrow. 
I  have  been  so  ill  all  day,  with  swelled  face  (it  is  not  parlous  pain- 
ful) and  a  racking  headache  which  is.  .  .  .  Nothing  can  exceed  the 
thoughtfulness  and  attention  of  my  housekeeper  to-day  in  invent- 
ing and  serving  up  things  that  she  thought  my  poor  jaw  could 
dispose  of,  and  that  would  tempt  me.  I  am  inclined  to  say,  slightly 
altering  Shenstone's  lines — 

"  Whoe'er  has  travelled  life's  dull  rouud 
A^'^here'er  his  doubtful  path  he  urges, 
May  sigh  to  thiuk  he  still  has  found 
His  kindest  cook — in  Mrs.  Burgess  "  ; 

but  this  is  a  lie,  for  I  know  you  '11  all  ransack  your  brains  to-morrow 
to  think  what  will  do  me  good.  God  bless  you.  Oh,  dear  Mary, 
I  have  had  so  little  bodily  pain  that  I  have  been  feeling,  like  Dr. 
Arnold,  quite  thankful  to  God  to-day  for  giving  me  some, 
that  I  may  know  what  it  is  and  take  soberer  views  of  life  and 
men. 

'  My  kitten  has  grown  into  quite  a  young   lady  during   my 


AT  HAMPSTEAD  125 

long  absence — in  fact  she  may  now  be  considered  as  being  "  out " 
— and  she  lurks  about  the  house  in  a  way  that  I  fear  will  be  the 
worst  possible  example  for  Addie.  All  this  aftei'noon  she  has 
been  frisking  about  the  hall  outside  my  den,  in  a  way  that 
reminded  me,  tell  the  girls,  of  those  light-hearted  rats  who  used 
to  take  dancing-lessons  over  our  heads  at  Elderton.' 


'April  12,  1877. 

'  Dearest  Mary, — Thanks  for  your  letter,  which  1  read  while 
I  breakfasted  in  bed  this  morning.  Tom  came  home  last  evening. 
It  is  such  a  lovely  day,  after  the  deluge  of  yesterday.  I  quite 
agree  about  the  desirability  of  Tom  starting  from  London,  and 
shall  tell  him  so.  He  seems  in  very  good  spirits — but  oh  ! 
my  dearest,  I  don't  like  the  parting  at  all — though  it  is  for  the 
best,  I  feel  assured.  It  is  at  these  times  that  one  is  forced  to  see 
that  one  must  trust  God,  and  that  one  is  helpless  to  "help 
ourselves."  I  have  tried  to  do  the  best  for  him,  as  for  them 
all — and  can  only  humbly  hope  I  haven't  made  any  great 
mistakes. 

'  2  Upper  Terrace, 
'  Hampstead,  Friday  Xight,  Dec.  19. 

'My  dearest  Mary, — My  friend,  Mr.  Bain  of  the  Haymarket, 
is  sending  you  (I  hope),  at  my  request,  a  copy  of  Shakespeare 
which  I  want  you  to  accept  in  the  name  of  all  three  of  us — I  mean 
the  gii'ls  and  myself — as  a  mere  memorial,  or  pepper-corn  acknoAv- 
ledgement,  of  all  we  owe  to  you  for  your  loving  ministrations — 
during  the  last  two  years,  I  was  going  to  say,  but  I  mean  really 
during  all  our  lives  ! 

'  You  will  not,  dear  Friend,  regard  it  as  more  than  this ;  for 
we  do  not  wish,  even  if  we  could,  to  wipe  off  obligations,  as  we 
would  pay  our  grocer ;  but  we  are  quite  content  that  the  account 
should  remain  open,  to  be  added  to  as  often  as  possible.  Only  I 
would  not  dismiss  with  a  jest  the  subject  of  our  long  term  of 
loving  obligation.  I  have  had  many  true  and  loyal  friends  in 
my  life,  thank  God — but  none,  I  think,  whose  friendship  has  been 
so  loyal,  and  so  imselfish  as  yours.  Our  hearts  will  supply  what  is 
wanting  in  the  way  of  words.  I  would  only  say,  may  you  find  in 
us  only  a  tithe  of  what  you  have  been  able  to  supply  to  us: 

'We  hope  you  will  like  the  copy  both  in  its  interior  and 
exterior.     It  was  originally  intended  for  your  birthday,  but  the 


126        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

girls'  extended  absence  from  home  interfered  with  the  original 
plan.  It  is  the  only  edition  of  Shakespeare  I  know  that  avoids 
the  two  extremes  of  bigness  and  smallness.  It  is  really  a  handy 
size  for  having  in  one's  easy-chair.  As  an  edition  with  notes, 
etc.,  it  is  nearly  as  good  as  any  that  is  yet  publislied. 

'  We  were  truly  sorry  to  hear  of  Robert's  illness.  Let  him 
"make  an  effort"  and  be  all  right  by  Christmas  Day,  when  we 
hope  to  be  very  merry  and  witty. — Ever,  dearest  Friend,  your 
loving  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  HampsteaDj  Nov.  25. 

'  Dearest  Marv.  ...  I  am  sure  your  district  must  want  help. 
So  I  am  sending  you  my  Christmas  offering,  a  little  larger,  and 
a  little  earlier,  than  usual.  I  have  meant  to  do  this  in  some 
or  other  direction — for  I  have  been  making  some  odds  and  ends  of 
money  by  writing  and  lecturing  lately,  and  my  conscience  began 
to  smite  me !  So  please  don't  thank  me,  or  say  anything  about 
it.  As  to  boots,  bless  you,  ma'am,  I  've  three  or  four  pair  at  your 
service,  and  only  wait  for  instructions  from  you  where  to  forward 
them.  Have  you  any  Depot  in  the  East  End,  where  they  could 
go  direct .'' ' 

'  Upper  Terrace, 

'  Hajipstead,   Wednesday. 

'  Dearest  Mary, —  ...  I  have  been  rather  depressed  by 
dyspepsia  this  vacation,  and  when  that  is  the  case  I  shrink  from 
writing,  because  it  shows  itself  in  my  letters,  and  I  can't  bear  to 
depress  other  people.  .  .  .  Don't  allude,  in  writing  to  the  girls, 
to  my  having  workmen  in  the  house.  I  am  preparing  a  little 
surprise  for  them.' 

In  1878,  Miss  Thompson's  ministrations  were  in  urgent 
request,  for  Ainger  fell  seriously  ill  with  a  kind  of  brain 
fever  and  prostration  of  body  and  mind.  Legends  long 
remained  in  the  family  of  the  ladies  who  wrote  verses,  of  the 
flowers  that  were  sent,  of  the  callers  who  '  streamed  in '  on  this 
occasion. 

When  he  was  really  ill  he  was  a  model  patient,  but  there 
was  no  telling  at  what  moment  his  vitality  might  reawake, 
and  the  doctors  must  have  been  bewildered  when,  after  they 


AT  HAMPSTEAD  127 

had  been  injecting  morphia,  he   suddenly  roused  himself  to 

say— 

'These  doctors'  ways  are  so  newfangled, 
Their  latest  twist  about  is  thus, 
We  used  to  lie  in  the  arms  of  Morphy ; 
Now  Morphy  lies  in  the  arms  of  us.' 

An  atmosphere  of  improvisation  surrounded  his  sick  bed, 

and  fresh  poems,  from  the  pens  of  old  comrades,  cheered  his 

convalescence — 

'  The  Faithful  J. 
In  his  friendly  way 
Of  keeping  au  fait, 
A  friend  of  A. 
In  the  Danelagh, 
Has  written  to  say 
He  was  fairly  progressing  yesterday. 

How  gladly  would  I 
Were  Hampstead  nigh, 
In  hansom  fly, 
To  bell  apply. 
Catch  Doctor's  eye, 
For  entrance  try, 
Sit  bedside  by. 
Smooth  patient's  pillow;  he  knows  for  why.' 

Thus  wrote  his  great  friend,  Adolphus  Ward,  who  was  now 
Head  of  Owens  College,  Manchester,  His,  too,  are  the  un- 
academic  hexameters  that  follow — 

*  Truly  I  thank  Miss  Thompson,  benevolent  amanuensis. 
Friend  in  the  hour  of  need,  and  envy  of  me  who  am  useless, 
Truly  I  thank  her  for  writing  the  words  that  came  from  your  pillow. 
Genuine,  far  from  spurious,  words,  and  cheerful  and  kindly. 
But  when  strength  has  returned,  the  gift  of  a  merciful  Heaven, 
Alfred  himself  shall  sit  at  his  desk,  the  deftly  constructed, 
And  from  his  pen  shall  flow  for  a  while  not  sermons  or  lectui'es, 
(Though  their  time  shall  come  l)efore  long,  and  the  choir  of  the 

Temple, 
Duly  chant  harmonious  response  to  the  voice  of  the  Readei-), 
But  the  short  letters  of  friendship,  the  cheer  and  joy  of  the  distant, 
Witty  with  Alfred's  wit,  and  tender  with  Alfred's  aff'ection.' 

Soon  after  his  recovery  Ainger  went  to  Scotland,  to  the 
house  of  the  Walter  Evanses,  some  friends  he  had  recently 


128        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

made.  The  writer  and  the  reader  of  his  biography  must  be- 
come aware  of  one  thing,  that  his  life  was  a  chronicle  of 
friendships ;  that  friendships  were  its  events,  the  agencies 
which,  in  many  instances,  determined  his  fate.  No  life  was 
more  personal  than  his — none,  perhaps,  so  full  of  human  ties. 
'  I  met  some  charming  people  to-night,  we  have  sworn  an 
eternal  friendship,'  liis  customary  remark  when  he  came  home 
from  a  party,  was  very  nearly  true.  For  in  unofficial  relations, 
he  hardly  understood  the  word  acquaintance ;  he  either  knew 
well,  or  he  did  not  know  at  all.  When  he  liked  people,  he 
impressed  them  with  a  strange  sense  of  intimacy — though 
seldom  one  of  familiarity — and  there  were  few  among  his 
companions  who  would  not  have  felt  sure,  like  Dickens's 
Mr.  Tremlow,  that  they  were  '  his  oldest  friends."" 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Evans,  in  their  turn,  made  a  great  change  in 
his  existence.  Chance  brought  them  together.  He  had 
planned  a  visit  to  the  Atkinsons,  who  now  lived  in  Derby- 
shire, but  found  that  they  were  staying  with  their  neighbours, 
the  Walter  Evanses,  Avho  owned  Darley  Abbey,  a  stately 
place  not  far  from  Derby.  Its  hospitable  owners  suggested 
that  Ainger  should  also  be  their  guest  there.  He  accepted 
their  proposal;  he  came,  he  saw,  he  was  conquered.  Mrs. 
Evans  was  partly  Russian,  a  good  talker,  and  a  reader  well- 
versed  in  many  tongues,  while  her  husband,  a  descendant  of 
the  lady  who  once  asked  Coleridge  to  be  her  children's  tutor, 
had  great  scientific  knowledge  and  a  good  deal  of  taste  for 
poetry  and  pictures.  Ainger  himself  has  left  a  full  account  of 
the  family  antecedents : — 

'  Yes/  he  writes  to  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell,  'you  are  quite  right  in 
divining  that  Coleridge's  3Irs.  Walter  Evans  is  an  ancestor  of  my 
friend,  Walter  Evans,  whose  guest  at  the  present  moment  I  am. 
She  was  his  grandmother,  and  was  by  birth  a  Slrutt.  Her  father 
was  the  founder  of  the  family  of  Strutt,  since  so  eminent  in  cotton 
spinning,  and  the  head  of  whom  now  is  I^ord  Belper.  Curiously 
enough,  another  of  her  grandsons,  Mr.  T.  W.  Evans,  late  member 
for  South  Derbyshire,  was  here  this  week,  and  told  me  a  good 
deal  about  the  lady  in  question — much  that  I  will  tell  you  also, 
when  we  meet — for  it  is  long  to  write.  The  family  knew  that 
Coleridge  had  been  acquainted  with  their  grandmother ;  and  Miss 


AT  HAMPSTEAD  129 

Gisborne,  a  sister-in-law  of  T.  W.  Evans,  tells  me  she  believes 
there  was  some  proposal  that  Coleridge  should  be  tutor  to  Mrs. 
Walter  Evans'  children. 

'  But  since  I  had  this  conversation  with  Mr.  T,  W.  Evans,  I 
have  come  upon  a  curious  passage  in  one  of  Lamb's  letters  (see 
Fitzgerald's  edition  for  the  passage  is  omitted  in  Hazlitt's).  It  is 
in  a  letter  to  Wordsworth,  that  in  which  he  relates  the  well-known 
story  of  the  Man  in  the  Office,  who,  hearing  Lamb  speak  of  an 
Epithalamium  of  Spenser's,  at  once  concluded  it  was  William 
Spencer,  the  fashionable  poet,  of  that  day.  Lamb  goes  on  to  say 
of  the  man  in  the  office,  that  he  is  a  "brother  of  that  Miss  Evans 
whom  Coleridge  narrowly  escaped  marrying."  Don't  you  think 
that  this  is  Lamb's  mistake  here  for  Mrs.  Evans  ?  ^  I  should  be  glad 
to  have  any  other  exti'acts  from  the  letters  to  Thelwall  in  which 
her  name  occurs.  I  hear  that  she  was  a  very  remarkable  woman, 
and  that  a  good  many  of  her  letters  are  in  existence.' 

But  what  drew  him  especially  to  these  new  acquaintances 
was  the  fact  that  they  were  just  emerging  from  a  heavy  sorrow, 
the  loss  of  their  only  boy,  and  were  trying  to  take  interest  in 
life  again  after  a  period  of  seclusion.  He  had  a  feeling  that 
they  were  just  the  people  to  draw  out  his  nieces,  and  wrote 
home  that  he  had  discovered  exactly  the  right  friends  for 
them.  He  persuaded  his  unwilling  wards  to  go  when  they 
were  asked,  with  the  result  that  the  Evanses  then  and  there 
adopted  them  as  their  own,  with  a  warmth  which  was  readily 
returned.  These  new  daughters  came  at  a  right  moment; 
they  helped  to  fill  an  empty  place,  and  their  friends  soon  grew 
dependent  on  their  presence.  From  this  time  onwards,  the 
two  girls  spent  several  months  of  every  year  at  Darley  Abbey 
and  every  summer  at  the  Evanses""  house  in  Scotland,  where 
their  uncle  also  regularly  joined  them  for  his  holiday. 

This  arrangement  was  bound  to  affect  him  considerably, 
though  the  loss  of  home  companionship  was  amply  compensated 
by  the  interests  he  gained,  and  by  the  lightening  of  his 
responsibilities  naturally  brought  about  by  the  advent  of  these 
kind  new  guardians.     Their  home  in  the  Highlands  became 

1  It  is  now  known  that  this  was  not  so,  the  girl  whom  Coleridge  cared  for 
in  his  youth  being  Miss  Mary  Evans,  a  young  woman  of  comparatively 
humble  parentage. 


130        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

his  house  of  convalescence  on  more  occasions  than  one.  But 
never  did  it  serve  its  purpose  better  than  this  year  after 
his  illness,  or  leave  more  festive  impressions  of  his  good  com- 
pany. There  was  one  especial  rainy  day,  memorable  to  all 
who  were  present,  when  he  acted  Heads  and  Tails  from  first 
to  last  by  heart,  keeping  his  audience  unmindful  of  anything 
but  the  fun  within-doors. 

Christmas  time  always  found  him  re-united  to  his  family. 
He  had  the  real  Dickens  sentiment  for  Christmas — for 
its  festive  doings  and  its  fond  memories.  We  have  spoken 
of  the  letters  that  for  thirty  years  he  wrote  every  Christmas 
Eve  to  Mrs.  Smith  at  Sheffield,  regularly  posting  them  with  his 
own  hand  to  make  sure  of  her  receiving  them  at  a  particular 
hour.  And  there  can  be  no  fitter  ending  to  a  chapter  on  this 
period  than  extracts  from  one  or  two  out  of  the  bundle  that 
he  sent  her. 

'2  Upper  Terrace, 
'  Hampstead,  Christmas  Eve. 

'  My  dear  Friend, — This  year  Christmas  Eve  falls  on  a  Monday, 
and  is  therefore  (for  us  poor  clergy)  a  narrow  isthmus  between 
two  Sundays,  and  what  with  the  fatigue  of  yesterday  and  the 
anticipations  of  to-morrow,  I  fear  I  have  not  much  mental  energy, 
or  vivacity,  to  bestow  upon  my  old  Sheffield  friends.  But  never 
mind  !  the  heart  is  in  the  right  place,  though  the  intellect  may 
be  overclouded ;  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  the  former  is  that 
department  of  my  organisation  that  those  I  love  best  to  call 
friends  will  be  most  concerned  about. 

'  You  have  heard  of  the  gentleman  of  whom  one  of  his  acquaint- 
ances said  with  scorn  that  he  had  "  muddled  away  "  a  fine  fortune 
in  paying  tradesmen's  bills.  .  .  .  You  need  not  expect  me  at 
this  frivolous  season  to  "muddle  away"  my  letter  with  telling 
you  news.  They  must  wait  for  a  more  matter-of-fact  time.  My 
object  has  hitherto  been  to  provide  you  with  a  few  Cracker 
mottoes  for  your  Christmas  dinner.  Stories  for  the  soup;  facetiae 
for  the  fish;  anecdotes  for  the  "ang-trees"  ;  jokes  for  the  joint; 
tit-bits  for  the  turkey ;  extra  plums  for  the  pudding ;  and  co- 
nundrums for  the  cheese.  .  .  . 

'  But  it  is  ill  jesting  with  an  aching  heart,  and  after  all, 
sentiment  will  have  its  way,  do  what  we  will.     And  I  don't  want 


AT  HAMPSTEAD  181 

you  to  think  that  my  remembrances  of  my  old  Sheffield  days  and 
Sheffield  friends  are  all  of  this  flippant  cast.  How  I  should  like 
to  be  with  you  all  again  for  an  indefinite  period  ;  and  walk  on  the 
breezy  downs  all  morning,  and  "lose  my  voice  with  hollering  of" 
anthems  and  glees  all  evening ;  or  go  a-fishing  with  William  on 
the  Derbyshire  streams^  and  take  just  one  glass  of  gin  and  pepper- 
mint at  Fox  House  on  our  way  back.  Ah,  me  !  ah,  me  !  the 
days  that  ai-e  no  more.  It  is  no  use.  Drive  out  serious  thoughts 
— they  7vill  come  back.  William  will  quote  you  Horace  to  this 
effect  if  you  give  him  a  chance. 

^God  bless  you  all,  my  dear  children,  and  give  you  the  best 
kind  of  happiness  for  the  new  year,  and  all  years  to  come. — Your 
affectionate  friend,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  2  Upper  Terrace,  Hampstead. 

'My  pen  seems  hardly  dry,  my  dear  friend,  since  I  laid  it 
down,  a  whole  year  ago,  after  sending  my  Christmas  greetings  for 
the  year  1883.  And  now,  it  has  come  round  again;  and  Time 
has  gone  at  such  a  pace  in  the  interval  that  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
been  imposed  upon  somehow.  I  am  afraid  the  fact  is  that  as  we 
get  all  of  us  a  little  older,  this  phenomenon  is  generally  observable. 
The  "rapid  of  Time,"  as  Lord  Tennyson  calls  it,  "hurries  toward 
the  fall."  Well,  let  us  make  the  most  of  the  vanishing  years,  and 
above  all  things,  let  us  see  that  we  do  not  lose  any  old  and  valued 
friendships  in  the  course  of  them.  .  .  . 

*I  am  writing  under  trying  circumstances.  The  Waits  are 
singing  a  Christmas  carol  under  my  windows,  and  not  even  my 
seraphic  temper  (which  at  this  season  of  the  year  is  peculiarly 
angelic)  can  quite  hold  out  against  this — my  nieces  are  expecting 
a  hamper,  or  a  parcel,  or  something,  and  as  just  before  Christmas, 
the  pressure  on  the  Parcels  Delivery  people  is  something  per- 
fectly awful,  the  probability  is  that  the  parcel  will  arrive  about 
half-past  one  in  the  morning,  and  unless  I  like  to  be  roused  out 
of  my  beauty-sleep,  and  open  the  front  door  in  the  face  of  a 
cutting  east  wind,  and  produce  fivepence  and  sign  a  paper  in  my 
nightshirt,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  sit  up  and  ruin  my  constitution 
by  losing  my  natural  night's  rest.  How,  then,  can  you  expect 
me  to  write  you  a  nice,  cheerful,  jocular  Christmas  letter  .> 

'  I  wonder  how  the  dinner  will  go  off,  and  who  will  be  with 
you — a  happy  family  party  in  any  case,  and  I  hope  as  you  see 
them  all  gathered  round  you,  you  will  be  thankful  that  you  are 
more  united  than  the  C family. 


182         LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

' .  .  .  Should  any  one  present  be  guilty  of  any  inelegancies 
of  speech  or  grammatical  confusions,  you  would  do  well  to  cite 
the  sad  but  well-authenticated  instance  of  the  Oxford  under- 
graduate, who,  having  accidentally  exchanged  hats  with  another 
gentleman  at  a  party,  wrote  to  him  next  morning  the  following 
letter : — 

'"Mr.  Smith  presents  his  compliments  to  Mr.  Jones,  and  he 
has  a  hat  which  isn't  mijie ;  so  if  you  have  a  hat  which  isn't  his,  no 
doubt  they  are  the  ones."  The  relation  of  this  terrible  example 
will  doubtless  induce  Jim  to  set  about  the  study  of  English 
Composition  with  great  zeal  and  diligence.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
hear  that  my  godson  is  working  hard  and  is  prepared  to  confer 
distinction  alike  upon  his  college,  and  his  family  and  friends,  at 
Pembroke  next  October. 

'  Dear  friend,  .  .  .  When  once  this  season  is  over,  I  am  again 
as  grave  as  a  judge,  and  as  solemn  as  the  Reader  of  the  Temple. 
I  wish  William  had  been  at  the  Temple  last  Sunday  week,  when 
I  preached  my  sermon  on  Dr.  Johnson,  for  I  think  he  would 
have  sympathised  with  my  view.  Perhaps  I  shall  publish  the 
sermon,  and  if  so,  a  copy  shall  be  addressed  to  Brocco  Bank. 
You  perhaps  saw  a  short  abstract  of  it  in  the  Times.  .  .  .' 

The  promise  was  not  fulfilled,  for  the  sermon  was  never 
published. 


CHAPTER    IX 

DU   MAURIER 

It  was  in  the  seventies  that  Alfred  Ainger  and  George  du 
Maurier  first  met,  but  they  did  not  become  intimate  until 
the  early  eighties,  when  the  chances  of  the  hour  brought 
them  more  frequently  together.  From  that  time  onwards, 
for  fifteen  years,  they  always  met  once,  and  generally  twice  a 
day.  Hampstead  knew  their  figures,  as  every  afternoon  they 
walked  round  the  pond  on  the  Heath,  deep  in  conversation. 
Edward  FitzGerald  himself  never  had  a  closer  friendship  than 
had  these  two  men  for  one  another.  Their  mental  climates 
suited  ;  they  were  akin,  yet  had  strong  differences.  Perhaps, 
in  the  quickness  of  their  mutual  attraction,  Frenchman  re- 
cognised Frenchman.  But  Ainger  was  the  French  Huguenot 
and  du  Maurier  was  the  French  sceptic.  Both  had  mercurial 
perceptions,  and  exercised  them  on  much  the  same  objects. 
Both  were  wits  and  humorists,  but  Ainger  was  more  of  a 
wit  than  a  humorist,  and  du  Maurier  was  more  of  a  humorist 
than  a  wit.  Both  were  men  of  fancy  rather  than  imagination, 
men  of  sentiment  rather  than  of  passion.  Both,  too,  were 
fantastics ;  both  loved  what  was  beautiful  and  graceful  rather 
than  what  was  grand ;  but  du  Maurier  was  more  of  the 
pure  artist,  while  to  Ainger  the  moral  side  of  beauty  most 
appealed.  Ainger  was  irregular  and  formal ;  du  Maurier  was 
regular  and  a  native  of  Bohemia,  a  country  in  which  his 
friend  had  never  set  foot.  Both  men  were  gifted  with  an 
exquisite  kindness,  but  Ainger's  charity  gained  in  warmth 
and  depth  from  the  presence  of  his  religious  faith.  Du 
Maurier  was  the  keener  and  clearer  thinker  of  the  two ; 
he  had  the  wider  outlook  and  the  fewer  prejudices.  Ainger's 
beliefs  lent  a  new  significance  to  his  views  and  to  his  know- 

1S8 


184        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

ledge  of  his  fellow-men.  These  good  comrades  were  aware 
of  their  religious  differences;  but  they  knew  that  in  this 
respect  neither  would  affect  the  other,  and  they  never  dis- 
cussed the  matter.  Nor  did  this  division  divide  them,  or  at 
any  time  impair  their  relations. 

They  had  from  the  first  the  power  to  exhilarate  one  another. 
Du  Maurier  would  sit  down  at  the  piano  and  sing  French 
ditties  in  his  enchanting  manner — Au  clair  de  la  lune,  or 
Malhrouck  s'en  va-t-en  guerre^  or  the  English  LittU  Billee 
— and  Ainger  would  stand  listening,  till  filled  with  fun 
and  music,  he  would  burst  forth  into  some  song  or  into 
one  of  his  favourite  entertainments.  He  had  his  own  odd 
ways  of  showing  '  sympathy  with  everything  that  breathes.' 
He  would  lie  down  in  du  Manner's  studio  and  suddenly  turn 
into  a  donkey,  with  a  donkey's  countenance,  rolling  over  and 
over  and  rubbing  his  back  in  great  ease ;  or  he  would  become 
a  fly  preening  his  wings ;  or  a  parrot  drawing  a  cork  with  a 
hissing  sound  that  no  one  else  could  produce ;  or  a  dog  in 
all  its  moods,  an  impersonation  that  he  liked  giving  in  the 
company  of  the  dog,  who  seldom  failed  to  respond  and 
acknowledge,  as  it  were,  a  kind  of  kinship.  Dogs,  indeed, 
played  a  great  part  in  his  life.  They  instinctively  followed 
him  about,  and  his  own  terrier  was  his  inseparable  companion. 
From  these  Hampstead  days  onwards,  he  always  had  one  such 
of  his  own.  '  I,  of  course,  keep  my  most  important  news  till 
the  end,'  he  once  wrote ;  '  I  've  got  a  DOG  in  the  house  on 
trial,  but  I  believe  he's  the  coming  hound.  An  affectionate 
beast — an  Irish  terrier — shortish  hair,  yellow,  very  well-bred, 
I  'm  told.'  His  dog  was  a  sight  familiar  to  all  his  neighbours ; 
so,  too,  was  du  Maurier's;  and  Hampstead  seldom  saw  the 
two  friends  without  their  two  faithful  canine  counterparts. 

The  bonds  between  them  were  many.  Ainger  was  a  fine 
appreciator  of  drawing,  and  du  Maurier's  pictures  delighted 
him.  His  'extravagances'  often  consisted  in  one  of  the 
Punch  drawings,  of  which  several  hung  in  his  sitting-room. 
*  I  shall  indeed  be  proud  and  happy  to  have  two  "  undoubted 
du  Maurier"  on  my  walls,  "And  lo !  two  puddings  smoked 
upon  the  board  "  (Pope),'  he  writes  in  one  of  his  first  letters 


DU  MAURIER  135 

to  him.  Another  and  a  closer  bond  was  Punch  itself — Punch  in 
its  palmy  days ;  and  Ainger  now  became  du  Maurier's  invisible 
and  indefatigable  partner  in  producing  fun  for  its  pages.  It 
was  work  which  was  cut  out  for  him,  for  he  was  a  born  editor 
— of  other  people's  jokes — a  chef,  too,  in  the  realm  of  wit, 
dishing  up  old  materials  with  new  sauces  that  made  them 
unrecognisable.  This  faculty  was  really  more  marked  in  him 
than  that  for  original  hons  mots,  and  the  very  salt  of  these, 
in  his  case,  often  consisted  in  the  delicate  skill  of  his  adapta- 
tions. Pmich  was  to  him  a  delight  from  cover  to  cover.  At 
his  breakfast  on  Wednesdays,  as  he  sat  with  the  paper  in 
his  hands,  he  would  suddenly  be  seen  to  shake  with  inward 
laughter,  and  when  his  nieces,  anxious  to  share  his  mirth, 
would  ask  the  cause,  he  would  do  his  best  to  tell  them,  but, 
instantly  repossessed  by  merriment,  would  relapse  into  his 
chuckles  of  enjoyment. 

His  interest  in  his  favourite  periodical  was  untiring : — 

'We  are  very  glad,'  he  writes  to  du  Maurier  in  1882^  'to  hear 
of  your  good  weather  and  happy  doings  hi  your  northern  abode. 
We  gathered  from  your  beautiful  cartoon  in  Punch  that  fish  was 
fairly  cheap  at  your  watering-place. 

'  We  are  all  happy  in  our  different  occupations.  I  employ  my 
mornings  in  annotating  Lamb's  Essays,  and  my  afternoons  in  pur- 
suing the  wily  trout,  who,  though  small  in  size  (a  half-a-pound 
one  causes  an  extraordinary  sensation),  are,  by  compensation, 
rather  plentiful  and  easy  of  captm*e. 

'  Have  you  seen  and  read  a  new  story,  published  by  your  friend, 
George  Smith,  called  Vice  Versa.  It  is  one  of  the  cleverest  and 
most  humorous  books  I  have  read  for  many  a  long  day.  I  wish 
you  would  find  out  who  wrote  it.  I  presume  the  name  given, 
"  F.  Anstey,"  is  a  nom  de  plume  merely.  The  man  has  extraordinary 
talent,  in  my  judgment.' 

The  following  notes  were  also  written — later — during  an 
absence  from  Hampstead  : — 

'  Dear  Boy, — Your  letter  did  my  heart  good.  I  am  glad  you 
like  my  Type  Writer  notion.  Why  not  have,  the  week  following, 
a  companion  picture. 


136        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

' "  Jones's  letter  does  not  produce  a  corresponding  impression 
on  Miss  Smith."     She  opens  and  reads : — 

OWN 

*  My     Angel 

or  something  to  this  effect. 

'  Hojv  good  Punch  is  this  week !  One  of  the  very  best  I  have 
ever  read — cuts  and  letter-press.  Who  wrote  "A  City  Idyl"? 
It  is  inimitably  funny. 

*  I  had  quite  forgotten  "  Past  praying  for,"  and  it  made  me 
laugh  as  if  it  had  been  some  one  else's.     Ha  !    Ha  ! — Your  own 

'Alfred  Ainger. 

*  I  enclose  a  fragment  of  real  type-writing  as  a  pattern  ! ' 

'Prospect  House,  Clifton  Hill, 
'Bristol,  Dec.  26,  1888. 

'  Dear  Friend, — Your  long  and  most  kind  letter  did  me  good  ! 
All  best  wishes  for  you  all  for  the  blessed  new  year  when  it  comes. 
I  hope  to  be  back  in  Hampstead  on  Tuesday  next,  and  shall  lose 
no  time  in  seeing  you — and  if  you  have  a  vacant  evening  that  week 
I  shall  ask  to  come  and  spend  it  with  you. 

'I  am  charmed  with  the  "E  minor  Fugue"  to-day,  and  shall 
be  anxious  to  know  if  it  proves  to  be  a  Chestnut.  If  it  does,  you 
will  be  roasted,  instead  of  the  Chestnut. 

'  (Ha  !     Ha  !— but  no  matter  !) 

'  I  heard  a  funny  thing  last  evening  from  the  same  friend  who 
gave  me  the  "  bull's-eye"  subject.  It  was  overheard  in  a  railway 
carriage.  Smith  and  Jones  talking  about  a  recently  established 
foreign  Emperor — (German  !)  : — 

'  Jones.  "  They  tell  me  that  unfortunately  he  is  very  bellicose." 

'  Smith.  "  Dear  me  !  You  surprise  me  !  I  always  understood  he 
was  rather  tall  and  slim  ! " 

'  Is  not  this  enlivening  .'' 

'  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  have  done  the  Type-writer.  I  had 
thought  of  adding  to  the  legend — "  His  fellow  clerks  cannot 
quite  make  out  what  branch  of  the  correspondence  he  is  engaged 
upon." 

'  I  will  bring  you  back  Jusserand's  book,  which  is  excellent. 
I  mean  to  buy  all  his  books.  My  dear  friend,  Ward,  of  Owens 
College,  tells  me  the  book  about  the  English  Highways  of  the 
fifteenth  century  is  admirable.  He  is  certainly  a  remarkable 
man. 

^ .  .  .  A  bientol — dear  comrade  and  faithful  friend. 

'  Best  love  to  all. — Your  own,  Alfred  Ainger.' 


DU  MAURIER  137 

Sometimes  in  their  walks  they  had  a  keen  discussion  upon 
some  unrecorded  topic,  at  which  we  can  easily  guess  by  the 
trials  of  skill  which  they  engendered.  Now  it  is  Ainger 
who  makes  honourable  amends  for  some  error  concerning  a 
French  word : — 

'18  juillet  1858.  Aujourd'hui  j'ai  ete  remue  jusqu'au  fond  par 
la  7iostalgie  du  bonheur  et  par  les  appels  du  souvenir. 

'(Fragment  d'un  Journal  Intime — H.  F.  Amiel,  ii.  135). 

'  Bully  for  you  !  dear  friend,  A.  Ainger. 

'  My  captious  cavils  I  '11  henceforth  retrench  ; 
Nor  charge  my  friend  with  ignorance  of  French.' 

Now  it  is  du  Maurier  who  takes  up  the  pen  in  praise  of 
classical  metre : — 

'  O  !  de'licieux  anapeste  !  elegant  dactyle  ! 

Doux  sponde'e  !  aimable  trochee  !    lambe  de  boutou  ! 
Si  le  roi  m'avait  donne  Paris  sa  grand'  ville, 
Et  qu'il  fallut  vous  quitter,  je  lui  dirais  non  ! 

'  Vous  combinez  quelques  mots— tant  de  pieds  par  ligne — 
Sans  cadence  ou  rythme  aucuus — sans  accents  divers  ! 
Et  vous  vous  imaginez,  O  folie  iusigne  ! 

Pourvu  que  le  nonibre  y  soit,  que  9a  fait  un  vers  ! 

'  Ou  sont  vos  dactyles,  done  ?  ou  sont  vos  spondees — 

Tout  cet  attirail  forge  par  la  tradition  ? 
Comme  en  cet  affreux  latin  qu'on  parle  aux  lycees, 
Vous  n'en  faites  cas  aucun,  plus  qu'un  pauvre  pion  ! ' 

Unimportant  trifles,  these  rhymes  of  a  moment — little 
feathers  of  intercourse — yet  more  significant  of  happy  com- 
panionship than  many  pages  of  description.  And,  as  in  all  his 
other  friendships,  the  intimacy  was  extended  to  du  Maurier's 
family  circle.  It  was  one  of  the  secrets  of  Ainger's  charm  that 
his  affections  were  not  exclusive,  and  that  when  he  made  choice 
of  a  comrade  he  included  the  comrade's  belongings.  He  was 
welcome  to  all  the  du  Mauriers,  wife  and  girls  and  boys  alike, 
and  a  natural  figure  at  their  hearth,  which  counted  among  his 
many  homes. 

Their  relations  became  less  frequent  after  1887.  At  this 
date  Alfred  Ainger  was  given  a  Canonry  at  Bristol,  which 


138        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

involved  his  residing  there  for  three  months  of  every  year.  It 
was  not  perhaps  the  place  he  would  have  chosen,  or  that 
others  would  have  chosen  for  him.  A  canonry  at  Westminster 
was  what  he  most  desired.  '  If  I  were  only  a  Canon  at 
Westminster  my  highest  ambition  would  be  attained,'  he  wrote 
six  years  later  to  a  friend.  Failing  that,  the  cool  cloisters 
of  Canterbury,  the  old-world  precincts  of  Wells,  the  storied 
purlieus  of  York  or  Lincoln,  would  have  been  a  fitter  back- 
ground for  his  figure  than  the  great  commercial  town,  in 
spite  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe  and  the  ghosts  of  Chatterton 
and  Coleridge.  But  after  he  had  gone  to  live  there,  after 
Bristol  had  grown  to  mean  human  beings  and  become  a  city 
of  friends,  he  quickly  learned  to  look  on  it  as  home,  and  to 
find  happiness  both  in  his  work  and  his  surroundings. 
And  he  had  other  consolations  : — 

'  I  owe  you  many  thanks  for  many  things  always — and  not  least  for 
your  kind  congratulations  on  the  Canonry/  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Dykes 
Campbell.  '  I  am  afraid  (so  strong  is  my  f/«-professional  bias)  that 
when  I  was  offered  this  distinguished  honour  my  first  thought  was 
"  How  nice  it  will  be  to  explore  old  Bristol  some  day  with  Dykes 
Campbell,  and  hunt  up  the  houses  and  other  relics  of  Southey, 
Cottle,  and  the  rest."  And  so  we  will,  please  God,  some  day — 
and  you  shall  take  me  over  to  Clevedon  and  Nether  Stowey.' 

'  Canonries  do  not  come  every  day,  nor  jubilees  either,'  he  said 
to  another  correspondent.  '  I  have  had  so  many  kind  letters  on 
the  occasion  (so  rich  am  I  in  friends)  that  I  have  not  begun  to 
think  of  the  possibility  of  acknowledging  them  in  order.' 

He  liked  the  recognition  of  his  services,  even  if  it  were  not 
the  ideal  one.  It  was  not  the  first  tribute  received  by  him. 
Already  in  1885,  the  University  of  Glasgow  had  made  him  an 
honorary  LL.D. — an  additional  proof,  if  one  were  needed,  of 
the  effect  produced  by  his  lectures,  given  from  time  to  time 
both  in  Glasgow  and  Edinburgh.  He  greatly  enjoyed  the 
journey  to  Scotland  on  this  occasion. 

'  I  got  your  pleasant  letter  from  Syracuse  on  the  papier  du  pays,' 
he  wrote  to  Malcolm  Macmillan  ' .  .  .  and  deciphered  it  in  the 
railway-carriage  going  down  to  Glasgow — where  I  have  been 
LL.D.'d,  if  you  please — and  if  you  ask  me  what  led  the  Glasgovians 


DU  MAURIER  189 

to  think  of  "  poor  little  me  "  for  such  an  honour^  I  can  only  say 
I  'ra  (LL.)D.'d  if  I  know.   .  .  . 

'  When  I  came  down  from  Glasgow  town 
I  was  a  comely  sicht  to  see. 
My  Hood  was  made  of  black  velvetj 
And  deftly  lined  with  Cramoisie. 

'  (Old  Scots  Ballad.)' 

These  were,  perhaps,  his  busiest  years.  In  1881,  Alexander 
Macmillan  asked  him  to  undertake  the  Life  of  Lamb  for  the 
Men  of  Letters  Series ;  in  1883,  he  set  to  work  upon  his 
edition  of  Lamb's  Essays  \  and,  in  1887,  upon  that  of  Lamb's 
Letters,  in  two  volumes — all  for  the  same  publisher.  These 
tasks  were  the  mainspring  of  his  fame  as  a  writer ;  they  com- 
prised his  chief  literary  achievement ;  they  gave  him  his 
niche  in  the  field  of  literature,  and  marked  him  out  as  the 
lover  of  Elia,  with  whose  name  his  was  henceforth  associated. 
In  this  way  they  made  an  epoch  in  his  life,  and  deserve  to 
be  fully  chronicled  in  a  separate  chapter. 

Meanwhile  he  took  a  house  every  year  at  Bristol,  or  to 
speak  more  accurately,  at  Clifton,  the  high -lying  suburb  of 
the  town ;  and  here,  when  his  time  came  round,  he  installed 
himself  and  his  family.  The  upheaval  from  Hampstead,  at 
first  disturbing,  soon  became  a  habit,  and  it  certainly  had 
one  advantage  for  his  friends — it  compelled  him  to  write 
more  letters.  Du  Maurier  got  the  most  of  them  and,  after 
1888,  the  correspondence  was  further  increased,  for  then  the 
du  Mauriers  also  moved  from  Hampstead  into  town.  '  I  am 
glad  to  hear  of  the  Mansion — but  "  Oh,  the  difference  to 
me  ! " '  wrote  Ainger,  then  at  Clifton ;  and  he  felt  it  sadly 
when  he  came  back  to  Upper  Terrace  and  missed  the  daily 
walks  on  the  Heath.  But  he  was  constantly  at  '  the  Mansion "" 
in  Porchester  Terrace,  and  distance  did  not  weaken  his 
devotion. 

A  list  of  the  endings  to  Ainger's  letters  to  '  his  Artist '  is 
in  itself  an  epitome  of  their  mutual  relations :  '  Your  own 
Canon,'  'Your  love-sick  Canon,'  'Your  own  Canon  in  (unde- 
sirable) residence,'  '  Your  Canon  in  partibus,'  '  Your  own 
flippant  Canon,'  or  *  A  Continuance  of  power  to  your  elbow  is 


140        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

the  earnest  wish  of,  dear  Sir,  your  affectionate  humble  servant, 
Samuel  Johnson "" —  these  are  a  few  among  many,  and  the  letters 
themselves,  which  cover  fourteen  years,  always  remain  equally 
expansive.  The  earlier  ones  that  follow  tell  their  own 
story. 

PS. — A  Canon  has  no  special  costume,  but  should  look  severely 
ecclesiastical — and  have  a  small  Rosette  in  the  front  of  his  hat- 
band. 

Drawbacks  to  the  Position. 

Street  of  fashionable  Cathedral  town.  Cathedral  Dignitary 
walking  out  with  two  nieces.  Little  dog  disappearing  in  the 
distance. 

Mildred  (in  agony).  Oh  !  Uncle  !  do  whistle  to  Flossy — she  '11 
be  lost. 

Catk.  Dig.     My  love,  I  'm  the  New  Canon — and  I  daren't. 

'  Dearest  of  friends  and  correspondents  ! — The  climate  is  so  hot 
and  relaxing  that  I  am  not  up  to  much,  but  the  sight  of  your 
hand-writing  helped  me  materially — so  please  repeat  the  pre- 
scription. I  was  indeed  delighted  to  hear  that  the  R.  incident 
had  (as  you  say)  brought  us  all  luck — I  hope  Miss  R.  (being 
Scotch)  can  get  the  joke  into  her  system  without  the  well-known 
operation.  That  naturally  reminds  me  that  Sydney  Smith  was 
once  a  Canon  here — before  he  was  Canon  of  St.  Paul's.  So  there 
is  precedent,  Sir,  for  any  flippancy  that  you  may  detect  in  my 
words  or  conduct.  We  are  all  very  happy  here — save  that  the 
air  does  nut  do  after  Hampstead.  It  is  wonderfully  pure  and 
sweet  and  delicious,  but  it  lets  me  down  any  number  of  pegs. 
All  the  neighbours  and  surrounding  inhabitants  are  most  kind. 
They  call  upon  us  in  their  thousands.  I  hope  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Evans  may  come  to  us  for  a  few  days  at  the  end  of  next  week. 
Then  the  week  after  we  have  another  old  friend — then  the  first 
fortnight  of  August  I  shall  be  able  to  get  away  a  little,  for  the 
Cathedral  (Dom-Kirche)  is  closed  for  repairs.  Then  my  girls  go 
to  Scotland^  and  I  shall  be  left  rather  too  much  to  myself,  but  I 
hope  to  persuade  a  few  stray  bachelor  friends  to  come  and  pay 
me  a  series  of  visits. 

'What  about  the  "Day  in  the  Country".?  Shall  I  see  it  in 
Punch  }  I  hope  so.  What  is  Anstey  Guthrie  doing  ?  I  begin  to 
fear  there  are  to  be  no  more  Amateur  Reciters.     I  wish  I  could 


DU  MAURIER  141 

have  told  you  of  something  to  draw  concerning  Miss  Cass  !     But  I 
never  joke  on  such  matters — never, 

' .  .  .  No  more  to-day — but  more  to  come.  I  am  going  to  send 
you  a  Tailor's  pattern-book  of  Ecclesiastical  costumes  for  your 
guidance  in  Punch.     Love  from  us  all — ever  and  ever  yours, 

'A.  A.' 

'  Callander  House, 
'  Clifton,  Bristol,  Friday,  August  26,  1887. 

'  My  dear  Artist  and  Friend, — You  are  very  good  in  writing 
to  me,  and  I  have  made  but  a  bad  return.  But  the  weather  has 
been  so  hot — so  hot — and  I  have  had  no  sea-breezes  to  temper 
the  rays  of  the  sun  to  the  shorn  priest.  I  am  so  glad  to  think  of 
you  and  the  dear  girls  (to  say  nothing  at  all  of  Madame)  getting 
the  bracing  air  and  exercise  I  am  sure  they  all  needed ;  and  I 
hope  Silvia's  ("Lovers"  I  was  going  to  say) — but  I  mean 
rheumatism — has  become  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  that  in  future 
it  will  "toil  after  her  in  vain." 

'  Your  picture  of  the  family  going  to  the  sea-side  is  charmingly 
conceived  and  drawn — but  dear  boy,  has  it  not  been  done  before  ? 
I  am  as  sure  as  I  am  of  most  things  that  Leech  (or  yourself)  had 
a  picture  of  a  sneak  of  a  husband  getting  "  out  of  it "  by  going  on 
ahead,  or  staying  behind,  to  avoid  the  luggage  and  the  turmoil. 
By  my  Halidome,  but  I  will  well  nigh  hazard  my  reputation  for 
accuracy  on  this. 

'  This  is  the  dull  season  here — all  Clifton  being  at  the  sea-side 
or  among  the  mountains.  My  Maggie  is  already  in  Scotland,  and 
Ada  and  Bentley  follow  next  week.  Then  I  shall  have  a  male 
friend  or  two  staying  with  me  for  a  few  days  at  a  time,  till  the 
end  of  September  is  reached — and  then  I  must  get  a  little  bra- 
cing at  the  sea  or  among  mountains  for  a  week  or  two,  to  prepare 
for  the  winter  solstice.  There  really  looks  as  if  there  were  going 
to  be  rain  to-day.     It  will  be  abundantly  welcome. 

'  I  am  very  happy  in  my  work  here,  and  have  leisure  also  to  get 
on  with  my  edition  of  Charles  Lamb's  Letters,  which  is  now 
really  on  the  way  to  be  finished,  health  permitting,  in  another 
six  weeks  or  so — and  will  be  out,  I  hope,  on  this  side  of 
Christmas. 

'  Write  again,  dear  boy.  Your  letters  are  always  a  delight  to 
me.  Best  love  and  regards  to  you  all  (not  forgetting  the  dear 
Don  and  the  amiable  "Dachs") — Your  own  stern  critic,  but 
affectionate  friend,  A.  Ainoer.' 


142         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  TULLIBELTON,  BaNKFOOT, 

'Pkrth,  Scotland,  I2th  Sept.  1888. 

'  My  dear  Friend, — We  have  read  in  the  Titnes  with  great 
interest  of  the  birth  of  another  grandson,  and  we  are  anxious  to 
know  that  all  is  going  well  with  the  dear  mother  and  her  babe 
— so,  if  this  reaches  you,  please  send  me  one  line  (or  more),  with 
news  of  you  and  yours,  all  round.  Since  writing  to  you  last,  I 
paid  an  unexpected  visit  to  Cornwall.  The  Lord  Chancellor 
very  kindly  asked  me  to  come  and  spend  a  few  days  with  him  at 
Launceston.  I  stayed  there  from  last  Saturday  week  till  the 
following  Wednesday,  and  had  a  good  time.  They  drove  me  to 
the  North  Cornish  Coast,  Tintagel  (King  Arthur's  birth-place), 
Boscastle  and  other  romantic  spots. 

'  Last  Sunday  we  drove  over  to  Dunkeld  to  Church,  and  whom 
should  I  meet  coming  out  but  Sir  John  Millais.  We  recognised 
each  other,  and  he  was  very  kind  and  civil,  and  has  asked  me  to 
go  over  one  day  to  lunch — so  I  have  just  written  to  propose  a 
day.  Evans  has  a  "  Beat  "  (as  it  is  called)  on  the  same  river,  the 
Tay.  The  fishing  has  not  been  very  first-rate  this  season. 
They  want  water,  oddly  enough.  However,  I  believe  Evans  and 
Ada  and  guests  with  him  have  already  killed  about  twenty-three 
fish. 

*  We  were  all  inordinately  delighted  with  "  Awful  Revela- 
tions "  and  want  to  know  whether,  in  a  moment  of  inspiration, 
you  invented  it.  It  is  so  good — it  seems  as  if  it  imist  be  old ! 
Does  the  following  strike  you  as  funny  ?  I  should  call  it  "  a 
little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing  "  !  A  proud  mother  showing 
her  little  boy  to  the  clergyman.  "  You  see.  Sir — he  was  our 
eighth  child — and  so  we  christened  him  Octopus."  This  did  occur, 
and  is  not  a  chestnut.  Our  best  love  and  regards  to  all.  Write 
soon  ;  ever  yours,  Alfred  Ainqer.' 

/  '  2  Royal  York  Crescent, 

'  Clifton,  Bristol,  August  28,  1889, 

'  My  Dear  Kicky, — Your  letter  was  welcome  as  the  Flowers  in 
May !  I  am  so  glad  to  think  you  are  in  La  Belle  France,  and  also 
drinking  in  Ozone — which,  in  spite  of  Local  Concerts,  ought  to 
do  you  much  good.  My  nephew  Bentley  is  here  with  me  for 
a  few  days,  and  is  in  ecstatic  delight  with  your  treatment  of  "  Our 
Curates "  which  appears  in  to-day's  Punch.  You  have  indeed 
done  it  admirably.  The  joke  came  originally  from  my  nephew, 
so  he  glows  with  honest  pride. 


DU   MAURIER  148 

*  What  do  you  think  of  the  following  ?  Bishop's  daughter 
asked  to  valse^  replies  : — 

' "  Thanks  !  But  I  never  dance  Round  Dances  in  my  father's 
diocese."  I  should  call  it  "  Filial  Piety."  Your  sea-sick  picture 
is  also  very  good.  Bully  for  you  !  By  the  way  the  new  man  (who 
is  he  .'')  is  very  clever  surely  in  his  *  1789  and  1889 — the  "  Tale  of 
Two  Cities."  '  The  faces  are  very  good.  Her  Gracious  Majesty 
suffers  High  Treason  at  the  hands  of  poor  old  . 

'  I  never  read  anything  funnier  of  Guthrie's  than  the  "franche- 
ment  canaille "  Music  Hall  song,  a  few  weeks  since  about  the 
"  Bloomin'  'orse." 

' .  .  .  When  are  you  to  be  home  again  at  Harapstead  ?  I  shall 
be  there  very  early  in  October  if  all  goes  well  with  life  and  health, 
and  our  many  schemes  and  projects. 

'  My  old  Dean  (90  in  the  shade  !)  is  very  old  and  feeble  of  body, 
but  clear  and  keen  of  mind.  But  his  life,  I  feel  it,  hangs  on  a 
thread.  The  weather  here  is  perfect  just  now,  though  a  trifle 
chill,  becoming  October;  it  reminds  me  that  at  church  on  Sunday 
next  at  Birnam  I  may  meet  old  Millais  or  some  of  his  family.  I 
hope  at  least  he  is  still  at  the  old  place. — Best  love  to  all  from 
the  "  Strict  Canon." 

*  PS. — Vivent  Athos,  Porthos  at  Aramis  ! ' 

'  33  Royal  York  Crescext, 
'  Clifton,  Bristol,  December  9,  1889. 

'  My  Dear  Artist, —  .  ,  .  What  on  earth  has  come  to  people's 
sense  of  humour — or  standard  of  it.  The  Times  quotes  extracts 
[from  the  Christmas  number  of  Puncfi]  of  "  exceptional  brilliancy  " 
— and  one  is,  that  a  man  says  he  could  not  ride  through  the 
streets  of  Venice  because  they  were  so  unusually  wet,  owing 
doubtless  to  recent  rains.  Great  Heavens  !  and  this  is  what  we 
are  expected  to  worship  as  the  cream  of  Humour  in  our  day  ! 

'  Both  your  pictures  in  last  week's  Punch  are  much  admired  down 
here.  Have  you  heard  much  about  them  in  London  ?  What  do 
you  think  of  this  (a  Fact)  ?  Professor  MufFkins  (the  eminent 
Ornithologist)  to  the  lady  next  him  at  dinner  :  "  I  was  afraid  till 
the  last  moment  I  might  not  have  been  able  to  come  to-night,  for 
my  colleague,  Professor  Snuffkins,  and  I  have  been  taking  it  in 
turns  to  lie  in  bed  all  day,  hatching  a  very  rare  eg,g." 

'  We  are  having  horrid  weather,  and  are  in  lodgings  where  all 
the  meat  is  tough  and  the  cooking  very  poor.  But  it  is  not  for 
very  long. 


144         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  How  are  you  all  ?  Best  love  to  the  Avhole  dear  circle. — Your 
own  (only  genuine)  Canon.' 

Professor  MufFkins  and  Professor  Snuffkins,  whether  fact 
or  fancy,  did  not  gain  admittance  into  Punchy  although  most 
of  his  suggestions  did.  Du  Maurier  delighted  in  them,  and 
his  answers  show  an  adequate  exuberance,  but  unfortunately 
few  of  his  letters  were  preserved.  Such  as  remain  perhaps 
find  a  fitting  place  here,  in  the  record  of  the  years  that  saw 
their  most  frequent  intercourse.  The  first  was  written  early 
in  their  friendship  when  du  Maurier  was  in  Scotland  on  a 
holiday,  the  second,  another  summer,  from  Dieppe. 

'St.  Andrews,  September  21. 

'  My  dear  Ainger, — We  have  just  returned  from  staying  a  few 
days  in  Aberdeenshire  (Haddo  House),  and  I  find  your  letter  just 
arrived,  whereat  I  was  most  muchly  delighted.  Thanks  for  the 
pour  manger  joke,  although  I  fancy  it  must  have  occurred  before  ; 
I  will  try  it  on  my  blessed  editor  whom  I  shall  probably  see  on 
Wednesday,  for  lo !  we  start  to-morrow  for  Ramsgate  Avhere  we 
have  appointed  to  meet  Charlie  and  Trixie,  who  will  not  come  all 
the  way  here — we  shall  be  there  just  one  week,  and  then  return 
home  after  a  very  pleasant  holiday.  I  hope  you  find  it  so  like- 
wise. Pray  commend  me  to  the  Stephensons  and  give  my  love  to 
dear  Charles  Keene — whom  you  will  love  as  I  do,  and  as  everybody 
does — the  oddest,  kindest,  nicest  old  boy  in  the  world. 

'  Sylvia  and  I  enjoyed  ourselves  hugely  at  Millais'  and  I  have 
many  amusing  stoi'ies  of  him  to  tell  you ;  our  stay  with  Lord  and 
Lady  Aberdeen  was  also  most  pleasant.  They  are  wonderfully 
courteous  and  considerate  people,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  their 
great  popularity  in  their  part  of  the  world. 

*  St.  Andrews  is  a  very  nice  place,  given  up  to  golfing.  I  am 
not  and  never  should  be  a  golfer,  nor  you,  I  fancy.  .  .  A  bientdt, 
cher  ami ,  en  vous  serrant  le  main  k  vous  demantibuler  le  meta- 
carpe. — Je  reste,  tout  a  vous.  G.  du  Maurier. 

'  PS. — I  spent  all  yesterday  afternoon  in  drawing  Trevelyan  in 
the  smoking-room  at  Haddo,  but  was  not,  I  think,  so  successful 
as  with  you — although  his  adoring  wife  was  pleased  to  praise  it. 
He  has  a  delightful  face  and  is  a  delightful  boy. 

'  Sylvia  and  May  are  both  indignant  at  being  called  London- 
lovers.     Bonny  Scotland  for  ever ! 


DU  MAURIER 


145 


'Mes  hommages  k  Miles  vos  nieces  si  elles  sont  toujours  avec 
vous. — Love  to  A.  A.' 


'  40  Rue  Gambetta, 
'  Dieppe,  Sunday  (1889). 

'  My  dear  a.  a., — I  was  delighted  to  get  your  letter,  to  hear 
that  things  are  going  fairly  well  with  you  and  yours. 

'First  of  all,  let  me  reassure  you  on  the  subject  of  the  Picture 
Gallery  picture.  I  did  it  and  sent  it  in  a  month  ago.  It  will  no 
doubt  appear,  unless  Frank  objects  to  a  St.  Sebastian  put  in  (fviih- 
out  a  halo — only  arrows) !  There  was  also  a  Prodigal  Son  with 
hogs,  a  Prometheus  Vinctus  with  vulture  and  a  centaur.  By  the 
way,  thanks  for  the  little  boy  who  begs  his  mother  not  to  ask  how 
he  behaved  ;  capital !   ,  .  . 

'  We  have  been  here  since  yesterday  week.  It  is  an  agi-eeable 
place,  as  lively  as  can  be ;  we  are  in  the  same  house  as  fourteen 
years  ago.  The  weather  has  been  very  mixed — when  it's  fine 
it's  very  very  fine — when  it 's  not  it 's  horrid.  There  is  a  splendid 
band  twice  a  day,  a  great  institution  when  it  rains,  but  so  good  it 
beguiles  one  into  the  Casino  when  it's  fine  and  one  ought  to  be 
in  the  air.  There  is  also  a  great  gambol — "les  petits  chevaux  " — 
of  race  horses  racing  round  a  round  table  ;  one  backs  a  number 
and  wins  or  loses  accordingly  ;  I  'm  soi-ry  to  say  my  young  people 

K 


146        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

are  gamblers — yesterday  May  and  Gerald  won  44  francs  between 
them ! 

'  There  are  English  residents  who  play  lawn  tennis — and  call  on 
visitors.  The  two  chaplains  have  already  called  (high  and  low) 
and  the  consul,  and  the  vice-consul_,  and  others.  There  is  no 
Newman  Hall  here  that  I  know  of. 

'The  bathing,  although  most  decent,  is  very  amusing  to  watch 
— no"puris  naturalibus"  as  in  Eastbourne  or  Shanklin. 

*  There  is  a  dance  at  the  Casino  two  or  three  times  a  week — 
Hampstead  could  not  produce  anything  duller  or  decorouser. 
C'est  un  monde  bourgeois — in  beau,  in  laid  !  As  for  the  town 
and  plage,  nothing  can  be  livelier  or  more  picturesque ;  we  never 
tire  of  the  long  High  Street,  in  spite  of  many  smells.  Everything 
is  above  board  in  France — no  deception.  If  one  could  only  draw 
these  odours,  on  wood !  However,  they  would  not  be  fit  for 
Punch. 

'Trixy  and  Charlie  are  coming  over  for  two  or  three  days  next 
week — race  week ;  then  he  is  going  to  Canada,  and  she  and  the 
children  will  come  to  us  in  Hampstead. 


'  I  hope  your  pastel  portrait  will  not  efface  those  two  famous 


ones 


'When  shall  we  meet  again  ? 

'  Kindest  messages  from  all,  and  please  commend  us  to  your 
nieces'  recollections. — Yours  ever  sincerely,        G.  du  Maurier. 

'  PS. — (afternoon)  The  weather  to-day  is  simply  lovely ;  we  are 


DU  MAURIER  147 

going  to  the  concert.     It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  the  food 
is  good  here — "cuisine  bourgeoise."  ' 


ALKEADlf  . 


'We  are  trying  hard  to  let  our  house  altogether,  but  I  fear 
with  a  slender  chance  of  success.  You  are  right — Hampstead  is 
lovely,  but  dull. 

'  I  am  hard  at  work  on  the  Almanac,  on  the  back  edition  of  the 
immortal  P.,  on  my  lecture,  which  I  am  obliged  to  learn  by  heart 
on  account  of  my  liability  to  "  migraine,"  or  temporary  blindness, 
which  prevents  me  from  reading,  even  the  clearest  and  largest 
print.  I've  got  about  18  or  20  of  these  to  deliver  in  England 
and  Scotland  (always  the  same  lecture  of  course) — un  pcre  de 
famille  est  capable  de  tout  : 

'  Quand  revenez-vous  ? 
"  Reviens,  amy — trop  league  est  ta  demeure." 

(which  is  quoted  from  Ronsard — or  else  from  Clement  Marot — or 
else  from  Charles  D' Orleans). 

'  Forgive  this  hurried  callygraphy  (carography).  Kind  regards 
to  your  nieces  and  to  Mr.  Evans.     Love  from  all. — Yours  ever, 

*G.  DU  Maurier.' 

'PS. — I  think  I've  told  you  all  the  news — for  there  is  none. 
Happy  families  have  no  history. 


148         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  19    PORCHESTEB   TeRRACB, 

'  Easter  Monday. 

'  Caro  et  molto  reverato  mio  Alfreddo, — I  was  truly  glad  to 
hear  from  youj  as  we  were  all  wondering  what  had  really  become 
of  you;  it  has  not  occurred  to  us  that  you  were  seedy,  from  seeing 
your  name  among  the  preachers. 

'  You  are  a  most  imprudent  youth,  and  always  were,  as  I  have 
often  told  you,  reckless  of  cold  and  fatigue.  However,  on  the 
9th  prox.,  this  poor  scribe  returns  to  Hampstead  and  means  to 
look  after  you  and  speak  to  you  with  the  wise  severity  of  a 
father. 

*  I  also  have  been  seedy  for  the  last  month  or  more — a  sup- 
pressed cold  I  fancy,  combined  with  London  and  much  dining 
about,  and  also  (which  is  more  creditable)  a  little  overwork,  for 
I  have  managed  to  paint  three  portraits  in  the  last  six  weeks — two 
for  love,  namely  Silvia  and  May — which  you  can  see  (along  with 
many  beautiful  works  of  art  in  water  colour)  at  5  Pall  Mall  East, 
R.W.S.  on  payment  of  a  shilling.  The  other  (for  love  and  money) 
of  Beatrix  Phillips,  the  daughter  of  my  Jewish  friend,  the  alderman 
sheriff:  and  so  pleased  are  they  that  I  am  going  to  paint  the 
sister  and  then  the  mother  (with  a  possible  chance  of  the  cousins 
and  the  aunts — Baroness  de  Worms,  perhaps)  .  .  .  Why  were  we 
not  advised  of  your  lecture  at  the  R.  I.  ?  And  could  we  have 
been  privileged  to  hear  it  ?  .  .  .  We  had  the  faithful  Collins  and 
the  brave  Bret  Harte,  and  spent  a  very  pleasant  evening.  We 
were  sorry  you  were  unable  to  dine,  it  was  a  capital  party  and 
would  have  been  capitaler  if  you  had  been  one.  .  .  . 

'  Yes,  'Appy  'Ampstead  is  dull,  but  'elthy.  .  .  .' 

Du  Maurier  did  not  deal  in  good  stories  as  much  as  his 
correspondent.  Ainger  felt  aggrieved  if  he  did  not  hear  one, 
at  least,  a  week — and  if  he  could  not  hear  a  good  one,  he  took 
a  bad  or  a  '  middling  one,"  and  fashioned  it  to  his  purpose. 
His  letters  to  du  Maurier  were,  as  we  see,  his  chief  vent  for 
them,  and  it  is  in  his  correspondence  with  his  other  friends 
that  we  perceive  the  many  sides  of  the  man,  though  he  seldom 
gave  expression  to  his  serious  thoughts  and  criticisms.  Some 
of  these  letters  we  are  now  about  to  give,  as  the  best  chronicle 
of  his  thoughts  and  moods  at  this  period. 


CHAPTER     X 
LETTERS 

1880-1892 

The  letters  that  follow  cover  the  twelve  years  between  1880 
and  1892.  A  good  deal,  as  we  know,  had  happened  during 
that  time.  They  had  seen  the  completion  of  his  work  upon 
Lamb,  the  chief  literary  accomplishment  of  his  life,  as  well  as 
his  promotion  to  the  Canonry  of  Bristol,  and  the  honour  paid 
him  by  Glasgow,  They  had  also  brought  him  a  fresh  sorrow, 
for  in  1885  his  sister,  Marianne,  died  almost  as  suddenly  as 
Mrs.  Roscow. 

'  I  was,  as  you  may  imagine,  weary  in  heart  and  body,'  Ainger 
writes,  in  September  1885,  to  his  friend.  Miss  Flora  Stevenson, 
'  My  dear  sister's  death  was  terribly  sudden.  She  was  on  a  visit 
to  a  half-sister  of  hers,  at  Upper  Norwood.  She  was  sitting 
quietly  reading  just  before  lunch  on  Saturday — when  she  broke 
a  blood-vessel  on  the  lung  and  died  in  a  few  minutes.  She  had 
been  for  years  in  very  delicate  health,  but  had  been  no  worse  than 
usual  of  late,  and  had  written  happily  to  us  all  a  day  or  two 
before.  Still  we  see  abundant  reason  for  thankfulness.  She  was 
among  kind  friends,  and  not  in  a  lonely  lodging,  or  (as  it  might 
easily  have  been)  in  a  railway  carriage,  or  out  of  doors,  or  among 
strangers.' 

Perhaps  he  felt  her  death  more  because  of  the  separation 
that  distance  had  caused  between  them.  Nor  did  trouble 
come  alone.  A  year  before  her  death  he  had  lost  his  friend, 
Mimi  von  Glehn.  And  in  1889,  Malcolm  Macraillan  perished 
tragically  on  a  mountain  expedition  in  Greece,  the  victim,  it 
was  practically  certain,  of  the  brigands  who  infested  those 
parts.  Old  comrades,  too,  were  disappearing — among  them 
his  loved  teacher,  Mrs.  Menzies.  After  he  had  returned  from 
attending  her  funeral,  he  sat  for  some  time  immovable  on 
Hampstead  heath,  unconscious  that  a  passer-by  was  watching 

149 


150        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

him.  When  he  looked  up  and  found  himself  observed — *I 
am  sad  to-day  ;  I  have  lost  one  of  my  best  friends ' — was  all 
he  said. 

Happily,  throughout  all  these  troubles,  his  varied  duties  and 
achievements  were  a  source  of  help  and  satisfaction.  They 
added  also  to  the  claims  on  him.  For  his  work  upon  Lamb 
had  brought  him  into  contact  with  interesting  new  friends — 
with  Edmund  Gosse,  with  Andrew  Lang,  with  Sidney  Lee, 
with  James  Dykes  Campbell.  It  is  to  an  old  comrade.  Arch- 
deacon Bather,  who  had  a  living  near  Shrewsbury,  that  the 
first  three  of  the  following  letters  are  addressed  : — 

'  Hampstead, 

'  Monday,  July  26,  1880. 

'  Mv  DEAR  Henry, —  ...  I  hope  you  like  George  MacDonald's 
little  book.  It  is  curiously  unequal,  as  a  poem  constructed  on 
such  a  system  was  sui'e  to  be ;  but  it  is  almost  unique  in  modern 
religious  literature,  for  a  kind  of  gentle,  genuine  revival  of  the 
mysticism  of  the  German  mystics,  and  the  conceits  of  Herbert  and 
Vaughan.  By  the  way,  you  may  be  glad  to  know,  in  the  interest 
of  friends,  that  his  Disciple  and  other  Poems  is  now  to  be  got 
sepai-ately  (3s.  6d.),  and  not  merely  in  the  collected  Edition. 

'  Phillips  Brooks  has  been  in  England,  and  preached  in  the 
Abbey,  on  July  4th,  the  anniversary  of  American  Independence. 
I  saw  Stanley  last  Monday  week,  at  the  Grove  Testimonial 
Presentation,  and  he  told  me  it  was  a  magnificent  sermon.  I  did 
not  hear  he  was  to  preach  till  it  was  all  over.  I  hope  I  may  have 
another  chance.' 

'  Dalness  Lodge, 
'  Taynuilt,  Wednesday,  Sept.  22,  1880. 

'  My  dear  Henry, —  .  .  .  Did  you  read  in  the  Times  of  Stopford 
Brooke's  secession  from  the  Church,  and  union  with  the  Unitarians? 
I  confess  I  am  very  grieved.  Not  that  I  ever  had  any  liking  for  him 
as  a  theologian,  and  I  always  read  his  sermons  with  a  feeling  of 
strong  repulsion,  but  his  change  will  bring  great  discredit  upon 
the  Broad  Church  party,  with  which  Stopford  Brooke's  name  is  so 
intimately  associated.  I  must  say  I  think  the  open  profession  of 
Unitarianism  is  to  Stopford  Brooke's  credit,  for  it  has  always  been 
clear  to  me  that — like  Haweis,  and  I  would  add  Stanley — there  was 
nothing  in  his  teaching  to  distinguish  him  from  that  body.  Is  it  not 
true  that  there  is  that  in  a  man's  attitude  towards  sin,  and  way  of  deal- 


LETTERS  151 

ing  with  the  subject,  that  tells  one,  (even  when  the  divinity  of  our 
Loi'd  is  not  at  all  in  question  or  even  referred  to),  whether  it  is  at 
the  root  of  a  man's  system  or  not  ?  One  feels  that  Kingsley  could 
not  be  a  Unitarian,  on  Avhatever  religious  subject  he  is  writing; 
while  one  feels  that  Stanley  and  Stopford  Brooke  are  essentially  so. 
Won't  the  Record  and  the  Church  Times  be  in  ecstasies !  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  if  you  have  seen  in  the  Spectator,  or  any  other  paper, 
any  comments  on  the  event,  or  any  manifesto  from  Stopford 
Brooke  himself.' 

'  Hampsteau,  Feb.  22. 

'  My  dear  Henry, — A  theological  question  I  St.  Paul — (Romans  v. 
and  passim)  says  that  between  Adam's  fall  and  the  giving  of 
the  Law  on  Sinai,  there  was  no  transgression  (jrapdfiaa-is)  only  sin 
(d/iapr/a). 

'  How  do  you  imagine  he  conceived  the  moral  government  of 
the  world  to  have  been  carried  on  in  that  interval  ?  Where  {e.g.) 
did  a  man  like  Joseph  get  his  fine  charity  and  goodness  from — 
from  a  direct  personal  inspiration,  or  how .''  and  how  far  was  he 
responsible  ? — for  certainly  the  people  who  perished  in  the  flood 
were  taken  very  seriously  indeed,  in  this  matter  of  responsibility. 
I  have  no  doubt  I  am  grossly  ignorant,  and  that  Hewin's  favourite 
sixth  standard  girl  could  put  me  right  in  a  moment — but  have 
pity  on  the  ignorance  of  a  new  Church  Dignitary,  and  tell  me  your 
opinion.     I  am  thinking  of  preaching  on  the  subject  next  Sunday. 

'  I  hope  you  get  on  nicely  with  Archidiaconal  work,  and  are 
nicely  clothed  as  well  as  being  in  your  right  mind. 

'  Have  you  seen  my  portrait  and  Memoir  in  Vanity  Fair?  It  is 
good  to  be  kept  humble.  Please  expend  sixpence  on  me — and 
hang  me  up  (as  high  as  Haman).' 

To  Mr.  Malcolm  Macmillan. 

'  2  Upper  Terrace, 
'  Hampstead,  June  28,  1882. 

'  My  dear  Malcolm, — .  .  .  I  hope  soon  to  write  and  propose  a 
day  for  coming  down,  when  we  will  talk  over  a  thousand  things. 
I  have  read  a  lot  of  Seeley's  new  book ;  it  is  wonderfully  stirring. 
But  I  find  myself  stopping  now  and  then  with  a  feeling  of 
remonstrance — "Come,  come,  is  not  this  a  trifle  too  clever?" 

"  Who  wrote  Democracy  ? 
Without  naming  names, 

I  say  Henry  J- s 

He  wrote  Democracy." 


152         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

It  is  a  brilliant  assimilation  of  his  style,  in  any  case.  .  .  .  Goodbye, 
old  boy.  I  trust  we  shall  soon  meet  face  to  face.  Thanks  for 
recent  flippancies  upon  Post-cards  and  other  favours  duly  received. 
— Yours  ever  affectionately,  Alfred  Ainger. 

'  There  is  some  "  fine  confused  feeding  "  upon  Mozley's  volumes. 
James  Bain  is  right' 

To  Mr.  Smith  (of  Brocco  Bank,  Sheffield). 

*  2  Upper  Terrace, 
'  Hampstead,  October  1884. 

'  My  dear  Smith, — Thank  you  for  sending  me  your  eminently 
sensible  letter  on  Temperance  v.  Total  abstinence.  In  support  of 
the  former  virtue  as  against  the  latter,  allow  me  to  send  you  four 
admirable  lines  of  Chaucer  from  Troylus  and  Cressida  : — 

"  In  everything,  I  wit,  there  lieth  niesure ; 
For  though  a  man  forbede  drunkenness, 
He  not  forbids  that  every  creature 
he  drinkeless  for  alway,  as  I  guesse." 

*^So  go  on  laying  down  a  good  sound  claret  for  your  friend  A.  A. 
when  he  comes  to  see  you. — Love  to  you  all. — Ever  yours  affectly., 

'  A.  Ainger.' 

To  Miss  Flora  Stevenson. 

'  Knapdale,  Upper  Tooting, 

'  October  28,  1885. 

'My  dear  Miss  Flora, — You  are  quite  too  good  to  me.  As 
for  the  JAM,  what  can  I  say — but  that  I  feel  in  Hamlet's  lan- 
guage like  ''my  Lord  Such-an-one,  who  praised  my  Lord  Such-an- 
one's  horse,  when  he  meant  to  beg  it."  How  can  I  again  ever  order 
the  real  thing,  with  any  delicacy.  .  .  .  Seriously,  how  good  of  you 
— and  if  stolen  sweets  are  proverbially  sweet,  how  sweet  will 
these  Brambles  be.  The  wilderness  will  blossom  like  a  rose  .  .  . 
Please  tell  Miss  Louisa  that  I  have  not  forgotten  my  promise  to 
pay  interest  on  her  loan  of  the  Essays  of  Ella,  and  that  I  have 
directed  my  bookseller  to  send  her  mi/  Edition,  in  the  Preface  and 
notes  to  which  I  think  she  may  find  some  "  fine  confused  feeding  " 
— as  your  countrj'man  said  of  the  sheep's-head. — Yours  and  hers, 
always,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'August  1886. 
'  During  my  illness  I  read  Miss  Austen  {Pride  and  Prejudice) 


LETTERS  158 

once  more ;  and  now  I  am  reading  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  and 
so  you  see  I  am  true  to  the  good  old  models.  How  utterly  melo- 
dramatic and  stagey  much  of  Scott's  dialogue  is — and  how  full  of 
charm  and  life  and  variety  he  is,  in  spite  of  it  all.' 

(After  the  gift  of  a  book  from  Miss  Stevenson.) 

'  You  know  how  I  love  John  Brown,  and  how  I  rank  him  with 
the  sweetest,  purest,  tenderest,  as  well  as  most  poetic  and  graphic 
and  humorous  of  writers  who  adorn  our  literature  ;  and  every  fresh 
help  to  knowing  and  understanding  him  better,  I  truly  value. 

' .  .  .  Maggie  was  saying  the  other  day  that  she  had  been  very 
remiss  in  never  sending  a  definite  message  of  thanks  to  you  for 
the  Edinburgh  Rock.  (It  sounds  like  the  name  of  an  Evangelical 
newspaper.) ' 

To  Mr.  Malcolm  Macmillan. 

'  2  Upper  Terrace,  Hampstead, 

'Saturday  Afternoon  [Spring  1886]. 

'  Dear  Boy, — .  .  .  I  dreamed  last  night  that  you  and  a  German 
governess  in  your  family  made  me  a  joint  present  of  a  very  shabby 
annotated  edition  of  Izaak  Walton.  If  incongruity  can  go  farther 
than  this  I  trouble  you  !  Just  before  going  to  bed  I  had  been 
reading  Andrew  Lang's  delightful  little  book  Letters  to  Dead 
Authors  (sent  me  for  Review),  and  in  it  is  one  addressed  to  the 
"  quaint  old  cruel  coxcomb."     Hi7ic,  I  presume,  ilia  sornnia.  .  .  .' 

*  The  Vicarage,  Meole  Brace, 
'  Shrewsbury,  May  6,  1886. 

'My  dear  Malcolm, — All  your  post-cards  with  conundrums 
and  epigrams  to  hand,  and  duly  noted ;  one  of  the  latter,  oddly 
enough,  reminded  me  in  its  rhymes  of  an  old  one  of  my  own 
made  years  ago  when  R.  H.  Hutton  praised  some  very  mild  piece 
of  acting  at  a  Hamlet  performance  : — 

''There  was  au  old  critic  named  Hutton 
For  whose  judgment  I  'd  not  give  a  button  ; 
For  in  saying,  in  fact. 

That  young can  act, 

He  calls  venison  what  /  call  hashed  mutton. " 

"  By  a  natural  association  of  ideas,  I  must  mention  that  I  had 
a  note  from  Mary  Dickens  this  morning  to  tell  me  of  the  next 
Performance  of  the  Dramatic  Students  next  week  (Thursday  the 


154         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

13th),  at  the  Royalty  :  a  play  of  the  late  James  White's,  The  King 
and  the  Commons,  and  to  ask  me  if  I  would  go.  Will  you  go  with 
me,  as  before  ?  If  so,  will  you  take  two  stalls  as  soon  as  may  be  ? 
...  I  must  tell  you  an  answer  lately  given  in  an  examination  to  a 
schoolmaster  friend  of  mine. 

'  Q. — What  was  the  Salic  Law  ? 

'  A. — It  was  a  law  that  every  woman  should  have  a  male  child 
before  she  died. 

'  I  am  delighted  to  see  that  the  Dramatic  Students  are  going 
to  do  Love's  Labour  Lost  in  June  next.  .  .  .' 

'  1  Hervey  Road, 
'Cambridge,  Thursday,  Dec.  2. 

'  I  am  very  glad  that  the  Woman  Killed  tvith  Kindness  is  finally 
settled.  It  is  crude,  and  often  too  short  in  the  scenes  for  the 
amount  of  action  contained  in  them,  but  it  ought  to  be  capable 
of  being  made  very  interesting,  and  marvellously  pathetic.  Lamb 
called  Heywood  a  '•  Prose  Shakspeare."  I  think  (to  borrow  what 
James  Smith  said  of  Crabbe),  he  might  be  more  justly  called  a 
"Shakspeare  in  worsted  stockings."  ' 

To  Mrs.  Gelderd  Somervell. 

'Dec.  29,  1886. 

*  Have  you  read  and  mastered  that  noble  new  poem  Locksley 
Hall,  Sixty  Years  After  by  the  Laureate }  It  is  one  of  the  most 
touching  things  he  ever  did — and  much  of  it,  I  have  the  best 
reasons  for  knowing,  was  written  in  the  first  shock  of  the  news  of 
the  death  of  his  son  Lionel.  .  .  . 

'I  think  "the  Angelus"  very  charming,  though  I  can't  quite 
get  over  the  words  "  ere  I  was  dead."  Where  is  the  gentleman 
supposed  to  be  at  the  moment  of  uttering  that  remark  ^  at  C  in 
Alt,  or  de  profundis,  or  in  some  neutral  territory  .-* ' 

To  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell. 

'  May  17,  1887. 

' .  .  .  Lose  no  time  in  getting  Prof.  Brandl's  new  book  on 
Coleridge,  translated  by  Lady  Eastlake.  It  is  a  perfectly  wonder- 
ful book  for  a  foreigner  to  have  written.  It  has  some  little 
blemishes,  and  odd  literalisms  here  and  there,  as  was  inevitable, 
but  taken  altogether  it  is  incomparably  the  best  life  of  Coleridge, 
and  commentary  on  his  poems,  yet  written.  He  anticipates  me 
(alas !)  in  one  or  two  things  I  have  said  in  a  little  Paper  you  will 
find  in  the  next  Number  of  Macmillan.' 


LETTERS  155 

To  THE  Same. 

'^  Callander  House, 
'  Clifton,  Wednesday,  Sept.  21,  1887. 

' .  .  .  Come  to  Bristol,  get  into  a  cab — and  tell  the  cabman 
"  Callander  House,  Clifton  HilL"  If  he  does  not  know  it — tell 
him  it  is  opposite  Clifton  Parish  Church.  If  he  still  hesitates, 
tell  him  that  Shakespeare  speaks  of  "  plain  as  way  to  Parish 
Church" — and  ask  him  where  on  earth  he  was  educated.  But  I 
think  your  last  detail  will  satisfy  him. 

*  I  have  to  thank  you  for  tivo  books.  What  a  "  snapper-up  of 
unconsidered  trifles  you  are,"  and  how  boldly  you  practise  your 
skill  under  the  very  nose  of  a  Sotheby,  or  a  Wilkinson !  I  only 
hope  I  shan't  be  sent  for  some  day,  to  hail  you  out.  I  am  on  the 
point  of  getting  copies  of  the  Williams  letters,  etc.,  by  a  quite 
different  channel,  which  I  will  wait  to  tell  you,  face  to  face. — 
Yours  ever,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  THE  Same. 

'July  26,  1888. 

'  I  never  in  my  life  heard  such  a  set  of  attempts  at  after-dinner 
speaking  as  at  the  Mayor's  luncheon.  As  was  once  before  said 
of  a  like  occasion,  there  was  "eveiy  luxury  except  the  letter  H." 

'  Do  you  know  the  Mirror  in  forty-eight  volumes  ?  I  suppose  it 
could  easily  be  got  hold  of  somewhere — short  of  the  Museum,  for 
'^  that  way  madness  lies."  ' 

To  THE  Same. 

'  Richmond  House, 
'Clifton  Hill,  Timrsday,  Aug.  30,  1888. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — I  have  very  nearly  tried  poetiy  on  you, 
in  my  scorn,  and  began  two  odes, — one  opening  thus : 

*  A  Person  of  Tilliiigton  Terrace 
Refused  to  accept  of  some  "  Slierris"  ; 
and  the  other : 

'  A  Pitiful  person  of  Hastings 
Wouldn't  hear  of  a  few  claret  tastings, 
Unless,  if  you  please. 
He  contributed  fees ! 
And  heuce  these  poetical  bastings. 

'  But  the  Muse  declines  even  to  attend  upon  any  such  miserable 
hair-splittings — so  please  let  us  hear  no  more  on  the  theme. 
Meantime,  if  you  love  me,  send  me  any  scraps  of  information 


156  LIFE   OF   ALFKED  AINGER 

about  the  Lyrical  Ballads  and  their  earliest  reception  by  the 
ignorant  world. 

'  Excuse  these  hasty  lines.  You  know  what  the  week  is,  when 
one  has  not  only  to  pack,  but  to  leave  a  house  behind  one  in 
something  like  the  order  in  which  one  received  it. 

'  From  Saturday  next  I  shall  be  at  Lord  Halsbury's  till  Wednes- 
day probably.  ("  I  remember  dining  with  him  once,  Gentlemen, 
there  was  only  us  two,  but  everything  as  grand  as  if  twenty  were 
expected.  The  Great  Seal  guarded  by  a  man  in  armour,  with  a 
drawn  sword  and  silk  stockings,  which  is  continually  done. 
Gentlemen,  night  and  day."  See  your  favourite  author — next  to 
Coleridge).  .  .  .  Ever  yours,  Alfred  Ainger. 

To  THE  Same. 

'  TuLLIBELTON,  BaNKFOOT, 

'  Perth,  Sunday,  Sept.  9,  1888. 

' ...  In  one  of  the  letters  of  Wordsworth,  Lamb  tells  him  he 
is  quite  wrong  to  wish  that  a  definite  profession,  etc.,  had  been 
assigned  to  the  venerable  mariner.  How  curiously  narrow  and 
limited  Wordsworth  was  in  his  estimate  of  other  men's  work  ! 
A  more  crude  and  incomplete  account  of  the  merits  and  defects 
of  Coleridge's  poem  can  hardly  be  imagined  !  By  the  way  read 
(if  you  have  not  seen  it)  Sidney  Colvin's  article  on  some  new 
Keats  letters  in  the  August  MacmiUan.  There  is  one  most  in- 
teresting bit,  in  which  Keats  tells  of  meeting  Coleridge  and  Green 
in  one  of  the  Highgate  Lanes. 

'  Coleridge's  own  version  of  the  same  interview  occurs  in  the 
Table  Talk,  as  you  will  remember.  .  .  .' 

To  Mrs.  Smith,  at  Christmas  time,  in  his  first  year  at  BristoL 

'  Prospect  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  Christmas  1888. 

'  My  dear  Friend, — The  above  address  will  strike  you  as  some- 
what unfamiliar,  and  will  at  the  same  time  prepare  you  for  an 
entirely  different  style  of  composition  from  that  frivolous  one  to 
which  you  have  been  for  so  many  years  accustomed  at  this  season. 
It  cannot  be  expected  that  a  Canon  ifi  Residetice  should  deal  in  such 
ephemeral  and  flippant  discourse  as  he  is  unfortunately  liable  to 
at  other  times.  For  though  a  Canon  cannot  always  be  preaching, 
and  is  sometimes  a  Canon  "  o^  the  Cushion"  (as  Willie  remarks, 
who  is  always  so  full  of  his  billiard  slang),  yet  "  noblesse  oblige," 
and  a  little  dignity  is  always  becoming.     Still,  there 's  "  a  deal  of 


LETTERS  157 

human  nature  in  a  man  "  according  to  Arteraus  Ward — even  in  a 
Dignitary  of  the  Church — and  if  he  should  in  any  way  offend  by 
a  lapse  or  two  into  levity,  he  asks  pardon  of  Convocation  and  the 
Bench  of  Bishops.     Let  us  be  serious  ! 

'  I  seem  to  see  you,  as  of  old,  keeping  up  the  good  old  Christmas 
customs.  William  with  his  grandfatherly  cares  growing  thick 
upon  him ;  Lillie,  with  "  news  of  all  nations  lumbering  at  her 
back,"  as  Cowper  says  of  the  postman ;  and  James  (no  longer  Jbn 
after  passing  the  awful  Theological  Special),  propounding  very 
minute  metaphysical  problems  that  rivet  you  all  with  amusement 
and  gratitude.  "  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio,"  I  see  it  all  from 
my  city  by  the  West,  Let  us  try,  even  without  the  phonograph, 
to  reproduce  some  scraps  of  the  Westwood  House  conversation, 
for  the  delight  and  improvement  of  posterity.  .  .  . 

'  James.  By  the  way,  Papa,  may  I  correct  you  in  one  mistake  (a 
natural  one,  I  admit)  that  you  made  in  reading  the  second  lesson 
in  Church  a  few  Sundays  ago.  The  passage  was  that  of  the  blind 
man  who  had  received  his  sight.  He  remarks,  you  will  re- 
member, that  he  sees  "men,  as  trees,  walking."  You  read  it  "  I 
see  men,  as  trustees  walking,"  misled  by  the  abbreviation  (trees) 
common  in  legal  documents.  May  I  suggest  that  you  take  an 
early  opportunity  of  returning  to  the  authorised  version  } 

'  W.  Smith.  Thank  you,  my  son.  The  mistake,  in  my  profession, 
was,  as  you  say,  natural.  Moreover  I  regret  to  say  that  I  have  too 
often  known  "men  who  were  trustees"  walking  (over  to  foreign 
parts),  and  the  "Settikies"  (see  Spectator)  left  lamenting.  At 
the  same  time  I  should  recommend  you  on  the  whole  not  to 
criticise  your  parent's  reading,  otherwise  our  relations  may  be 
becoming  strained  (as  the  Grand  Inquisitor  said  when  he  put  his 
second  cousin  on  the  Rack).     (Sensation). 

'Lily.  Talking  of  riddles,  my  own  turn  being  artistic,  I  am 
anxious  to  propound  the  following,  Avhich  is  beautifully  simple. 
Don't  all  guess  at  once.     "  When  is  an  artist  not  an  artist." 

'Mary  (flippantly,  again).  "When  it's  a-jar"  (groans  and 
disturbance). 

'Everybody  else.  When  he's  a — ;  When  he's  a —  When  he's 
a —  can't  think  !     Give  it  up  ! 

'  Lily  (severely).  I  asked  you  "  When  is  an  artist  not  an 
artist?"     And  I  reply  "Nine  times  out  often." 

'  Mamma.  I  think  that  at  this  charitable  Christmas  season,  my 
dear  Lily,  it  would  be  better  not  to  be  cynical  and  scornful,  even 
at  the  expense  of  the  Exhibitors  at  the  Royal  Academy ! 


158        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  Lily.  Oh !  Mamma,  isn't  that  rather  straining  at  a  gnat  ? 
Talking  of  straining  at  a  gnat,  I  heard  a  rather  good  story  when 
we  were  abroad.  Tom,  was  it  in  the  Crater  of  Vesuvius,  or  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Blue  Goat  Gulch  in  West  Carolina?  A  rather 
pious  and  particular  lady  who  had  lost  all  her  teeth,  consulted 
her  favourite  clergyman  as  to  whether  it  was  consistent  with 
Christian  simplicity  to  have  a  set  of  false  ones.  "  Well,  Madam," 
he  replied,  "  no  doubt  you  could  swallow  the  camel  better  without 
them." 

'  Katie,  Seymour,  will  you  pull  a  cracker  with  me  ? 

'Mr.  Knyvett.  I  am  afraid  I  must  forgo  the  pleasure,  Katie. 
I  cannot  sanction  the  presence  of  gunpowder  in  an  apartment  not 
constructed  for  the  purpose,  according  to  the  Act — Twenty-fifth 
of  Victoria,  chapter  thirty-nine.  The  brother-in-law  relents,  but 
the  Inspector  of  Factories  is  Jixed. 

'  Mrs.  Smith.  I  am  sure,  my  dear  children,  that  this  example  of 
duty  and  conscientious  attention  to  official  instructions  will  bear 
fruit  among  you  all,  during  the  year  that  is  before  us.' 

'SEASONABLE   LINES  BY  A  CYNIC. 

'  "  What  does  little  Birdie  say 
On  the  Card  on  Christmas  Day .'' " 
Birdie  says  "  I  think  it  hard 
At  this  joyfullest  of  times 
To  be  caged  by  Marcus  Ward, 
And  linked  to  idiotic  rhymes. 
VYere  I  loose,  and  on  a  tree. 
Making  my  own  melody, 
I  would  sing  so  sweet  and  clear 
To  you,  and  all  whom  I  hold  dear, 
And  then  I  should  not  (Bird  ill-starred). 
Look  foolish  on  a  Christmas  Card  !  "' 

To  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell, 

'Feb.  4,  1889, 
'  Your  note,  in  spite  of  all  previous  fore-warnings,  came  on  me 
with  a  painful  surprise.  For  I  had  come  to  fancy  that  you  were 
content  to  drift  along  for  the  present — and  that  the  tide  was 
keeping  indefinitely  off  London,  and  not  carrying  you  down 
Channel.  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  are  acting  wisely,  and  for 
the  best — but  it  is  a  great  blow  to  your  London  friends,  and 
not  least  to  me,  who  will  miss  you  terribly.     I  hardly  like  indeed 


LETTERS  159 

to  dwell  upon  it.  But  you  will  be  7ww  and  then  in  London,  I  feel 
sure,  and  we  must  "gather  up  the  fragments" — one  of  the 
widest  and  most  precious  lessons  of  Holy  Writ,  I  often  think.  .  .  . 
'  What  a  night  of  Rude  Boreas  and  renewed  Winter  it  has 
turned  out, — I  came  home  in  a  storm  of  wind  and  snow,  like  a 
shepherd  on  a  Christmas  card.' 

In  the  spring  of  this  year,  1889,  Canon  Ainger  made  a 
move  that  added  greatly  to  his  comfort.  His  little  home  had 
proved  too  cramped,  the  more  so  that  he  liked  to  entertain 
guests,  especially  the  Walter  Evanses  who  were  now  constantly 
with  him.  He  therefore  resolved  to  change  his  quarters,  and 
eventually  took  the  neighbouring  '  Glade,**  a  roomy  house  just 
below  Upper  Terrace.  Almost  his  first  letter  from  this  new 
abode  was  written  to  his  old  friend,  Mowbray  Donne,  whose 
father,  William  Bodham  Donne,  was  so  intimate  with  Edward 
FitzGerald. 

To  Mk.  Mowbray  Donne. 

'2  Upper  Terrace, 
'  Hampstead,  Friday,  April  12,  1889. 

'  My  dear  Mowbray, — You  are  one  of  those  men  whose  know- 
ledge of  literature,  and  of  other  things  better  than  literature, 
makes  his  approval  of  anything  I  do  singularly  gratifying  to  me — 
and  I  am  greatly  pleased  that  you  found  something  to  interest 
you  in  my  lecture.  I  know  the  ladies  present  mostly  liked  it ; 
but  (bless  their  hearts)  they  know  less  about  humour  than  about 
most  things,  and  the  expression  of  a  inale  verdict  is  to  me  more 
valuable — (Don't  shew  this  to  Mrs.  Donne  !) 

'If  I  had  not  known  before  that  you  had  the  "root  of  the 
matter"  in  you,  I  should  discover  it  from  your  remark  on  the 
Ingoldsby  Legends,  with  which  I  entirely  agree.  Indeed,  I  am 
vexed  with  myself  now  that  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  instance 
that  work  as  a  specimen  of  a  particular  sort  of  bastard  humour. 
I  believe  with  you  that  its  influence  has  been  wholly  bad — and 
this  apart  from  the  fact  that  it  is,  auj'ond,  vulgar  and  irreverent. 

'  Your  wife  will  have  told  you  that  we  are  moving  house  (only 
"42  inches  farther  from  town") — and  where  we  shall  still  look 
for  those  visits  from  our  friends,  whether  on  Boxing  Day  or  any 
other  National  or  Private  Festival,  which  it  shall  ever  be  our 
study  to  deserve. — Our  best  regards ;  ever  yours, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 


160         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

To  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell,  who  had  just  settled  at 
St.  Leonard's. 

'The  Glade, 
'Branch  Hill,  Ha.mpstead,  June  4,  1889. 

'  Mv  DEAR  Campbell, — It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  see  your  hand- 
writing again.  I  could  have  wished,  however,  that  you  had  shown 
a  less  indecent  precipitance  in  having  your  notepaper  stainped 
with  your  new  address,  thereby  crowing  over  your  poor  friend 
whose  "gaiter-buttons"  are  not  to  that  degree  perfect.  But  the 
Herald's  College  shall  turn  me  out  some  Paper  with  a  "  Head- 
line "  soon ;  and  then  your  hour  of  triumph  will  be  gone  !  In  the 
matter  of  Posts  and  Postmen  we  are  lucky  in  being  on  the  same 
Beat  as  we  were  before,  so  that  our  letters  addressed  to  the  old 
house  are  brought  naturally  by  the  old  men.  We  are  by  this 
time  very  fairly  settled,  and  are  delighted  wuth  the  size  and 
spaciousness  and  accommodation  such  as  we  have  never  known  in 
our  lives  before.  Is  there  any  chance  of  your  being  in  town  again 
this  month .''  We  could  give  you  a  bed  at  any  time.  And  it 
would  save  (to  put  it  on  no  higher  ground)  so  much  description — 
so  much  "  gilding  the  western  hemisphere,"  as  Mr.  Puff  says  in 
the  Critic.  By  the  way,  I  heard  the  other  day  of  a  young  Army 
Examination  Candidate  (in  the  Modern  Languages  Paper),  who 
translated  the  Eastern  Hemisphere  "  Le  Demi-monde  Oriental  " 
— which  is  curiously  literal.  But  this  is  a  digression.  Our  house- 
hold happiness  is  still  marred  by  the  absence  of  my  elder  niece, 
Maggie.  Our  kind  friends,  the  Walter  Evanses,  of  Darley  Abbey, 
have  been  in  town  for  three  weeks  at  the  Burlington  Hotel, 
Mrs.  Evans  in  daily  attendance  on  the  dying  bed  of  her  sister, 
Lady  Evans  of  Allestree — and  Maggie  is  so  useful  and  such  a 
comfort  to  them  that  we  cannot  find  it  in  our  hearts  to  have  her 
home,  until  the  end  comes,  which  may  be  any  day  or  hour. 
Sir  W.  Evans's  house  is  in  the  St.  James'  Park  neighbourhood,  hard 
by — and  Mrs.  Evans  is  there  almost  all  day,  and  Ada  and  I  go 
into  town  constantly  and  make  company  for  poor  Walter  Evans. 
But  any  day,  as  I  have  said,  all  may  be  over,  and  we  shall  be  all 
three  at  home  again,  and  glad  to  see  our  friends  as  usual.  The 
weather  is  superb  and  the  glade  (literally  a  glade — no  deception  !) 
on  which  we  look  from  our  Drawing-room  windows  is  really  de- 
lightful. We  could  act  As  You  Like  It  in  it  (with  two  property 
Deer  and  a  Clown). 

'  You  see  I  am  getting  frankly  egotistical,  so  I  go  on  to  tell  you 


LETTERS  161 

that  I  am  much  better  than  I  have  been  all  spring.  The  warm 
weather  always  sets  me  up  in  a  wonderful  way ;  but  alas !  our 
days  in  Hampstead  for  this  summer  are  numbering — for  on  July  1, 
I  am  due  as  usual  in  Bristol — and  this  year,  I  would  fain  have  had 
another  month  in  Hampstead. 

'Yes — the  great  Knight's  great  work  (I  may  call  it  great)  — 
three  volumes^  stout  extra  octavo  (price  45s.),  has  reached  me  ; 
and  I  wish  it  had  not !  Not  that  I  don't  want  to  have  it,  but  as 
I  hope  to  get  it  by  and  by  for  Review,  I  might  have  saved  45s. 
which  would  have  bought  me  some  new  art  fire-irons  and  a  chair 
or  two  for  my  new  house.  Moreover,  I  rather  think  Knight  will 
get  rather  abused  by  some  subscribers  to  his  edition  of  the  Poems, 
who  indeed  knew  that  they  were  in  for  a  single-volumed  (one-horse) 
memoir  at  the  end,  but  were  hardly  prepared  to  have  three  volumes 
thrust  upon  them — literally  "  Greattiess  "  thrust  upon  them  ! 

'The  book  is  "without  form"  though  by  no  means  "void.".  .  . 
Yet  (malice  apart — and  the  45s.)  there  is  much  in  the  book  that 
one  likes  to  have,  and  notably  Dorothy's  Journals.  Those  at 
Alfoxden  made  me  sigh  to  be  there  again  with  another  Lake- Poet- 
Fanatic  whom  I  know,  by  my  side. 

' .  .  .  And  now  I  am  fresher  to  express  some  interest  in  you  and 
yours — to  say  how  glad  I  am  for  every  reason  (save  my  own  loss), 
that  you  are  in  such  a  fine  and  healthy  retreat,  to  which  I  hope 
Mrs.  Campbell  will  by  and  by  supply  the  best  of  testimonials  by 
getting  quite  well  again,  for  the  sake  of  her  husband  and  her 
many  other  friends.  But  beware  that  widow !  For  you  can  see 
through  a  "  window,"  as  the  boy  said,  but  you  can't  see 
through  .  .  .  Ever  yours,  Alfred  Aingeb.' 

To  THE  Same. 

'Autumn,  1889. 
'  I  am  glad  to  hear  of  all  your  "  finds,"  and  shall  look  out  for 
you  in  this  week's  Athenceum ;  you  shall  shew  me  the  Bowles 
some  day.  I  have  never  agreed  with  you,  as  you  know,  about  his 
Sonnets.  They  must  have  come  to  many  in  that  arid  age  (as  they 
came  to  S.T.C.)  like  water-cresses  to  a  sailor  after  a  sea-voyage. 
...  I  had  a  prosperous  journey  (though  melancholy)  on  Wednes- 
day, and  was  at  Charing  Cross  in  ample  time.  The  Glasgow  Club 
Dinner  was  very  pleasant — for  Jack  and  Craik,  and  J.  J.  Steven- 
son and  myself  were  all  in  a  group ;  and  all  in  close  touch  with 
the  Chairman.  The  amateur  Bagpipist  performed  during  the 
evening — and  "  Man  !  it  was  fiot  juist  Heeven  !  "  ' 

L 


1G2        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 


To  THE  Same. 

'  33  Royal  York  Crescent, 
'Clifton,  Bristol,  Dec.  12,  1889. 

'.  .  .  I  am  in  "full  song"  as  usual,  not  only  preaching  a  good 
deal,  which  is  regular  Canon's  work,  but  presiding  at  meetings, 
and  giving  away  prizes,  and  keeping  myself  amazingly  en  evidence, 
which,  to  a  modest  man  like  me,  is  distressing.  Your  Athenaeum 
Paper  on  the  Englishman  s  Magazine  and  the  Reflector  was  most 
interesting.  I  wonder  if  it  will  have  the  effect  of  bringing  to 
light  the  latter  extinct  Dodo.  From  the  nature  of  the  case,  it 
must  be  rare.  For  who  would  preserve  three  odd  numbers  of  a 
Periodical  that  had  failed.^  Still,  wonders  never  cease.  I  am 
deeply  distressed  at  this  news  of  Browning.  I  have  thought  him 
looking  of  late,  when  I  have  seen  him  at  the  Athenaeum,  so  pale 
and  thin  and  old,  that  it  is  alarming  to  hear  of  Bronchitis  having 
got  hold  of  him.  Wonderful  man,  how  beautiful  and  fresh,  and 
even  intelligible  are  the  extracts  from  his  new  volume  given  in 
the  Times  of  to-day  !  A'id  old  Tennyson  follows  suit  on  Saturday 
next.  Wonderful  old  men  !  How  strange  that  they  should  once 
more  be  coming  out  at  Christmas,  like  the  waits.  Do  you  remem- 
ber Sambourne's  Drawmg  that  I  have  got — of  the  two,  with 
Swinburne  singing  in  the  snow  } 

'  I  have  chosen  a  Shakespeare  subject  after  all  for  my  Royal 
Institution  Lectures.  I  was  obliged  (the  time  being  so  short)  to 
take  a  subject  of  which  I  knew  something  and  had  thought  some- 
thing beforehand — for  time  is  too  cut  up  here  by  endless  calls 
upon  it.  The  "  Three  Stages  of  Shakespeare's  Art,"  I  have  called 
it.  The  early,  middle,  and  later  plays,  of  course  meant.  I  have  a 
good  many  MSS.  Shakespeare  papers  by  me,  and  I  shall  perhaps 
publish  them  before  long,  with  these  new  ones — if  they  please 
me  when  finished.  Write  soon  and  illumine  our  apartments  with 
some  electricity  from  the  Southern  Latitudes.  "  Flame,"  like 
Ariel,  "distinctly." 

'  Did  you  ever  hear  the  following  ?  some  people  I  know  declared 
it  happened  to  them  once.  Sitting  in  the  pit  of  a  Provincial 
Theatre  during  the  last  Act  of  a  great  Shakespearian  Tragedy, 
an  old  lady,  with  tears  coursing  down  her  cheeks  turns  to  her 
next  neighbour  and  says,  "Eh  mister!  but  them  Amlits  had  a 
deal  o'  trouble  in  their  family!"  It  sounds  to  me  too  good  to 
be  ne7v.     If  you  have  not  heard  it  before  I  shall  hand  it  over  to 


LETTERS  168 

du  Maurier. — Best  regards  to  Mrs.  Campbell  and  yourself  from 
us  all.     Ever  yours,  '  Alfred  Ainger.' 


To  Mrs.  Smith. 

'  33  Royal  York  Crescent, 
'  Clifton,  Bristoi>,  Christmas  1889. 

'  "  Here  we  are  again  ! " — (Christmas  Clown.) 

'"Please,  Mr.  Hook,  Mamma's  compliments,  and  will  you  heju7iny}" 

— {Traditional  Anecdote.) 

'  "It  is  ill  jesting  with  an  aching  heart !  " — {Serjeant  Buzfiiz.) 

'Ah  !  ray  dear  Friend,  the  truth  of  the  last  melancholy  quota- 
tion comes  sadly  home  to  me !  For  indeed  I  am  colded — an 
interim  Dividend  of  the  Influenza  to  come — A  Hair  of  the  Dog 
that  is  going  to  bite  me — and  as  my  Dean  is  90  and  my  only 
resident  brother  Canon,  Archdeacon  Norris,  is  disabled  with 
a  sprained  arm,  I  am  indeed  in  a  poor  way — for  the  whole 
weight  of  the  interests  of  this  great  Cathedral  rests  on  my 
shoulders.  I  am  indeed  depressed.  I  went  to  a  Medical  man 
here,  who  does  not  know  me  by  sight,  and  detailed  my  sad  case. 
— "Oh!"  he  said,  "you  want  rousing — amusing — taking  out  of 
YOURSELF.  I  am  told  that  Canon  Ainger  wi-ites  the  most 
amusing  letters  (especially  at  Christmas  time) — go  and  see  him  !" 

'"Alas!"  I  cried,  "I  a?«  that  unhappy  Being" — and  immedi- 
ately disappeared  in  Blue  Flame — kindly  provided  by  the  Blue 
Devils — (N.B.)  this  is  the  first  appearance  of  this  anecdote  in 
Literature.  So,  once  more,  dear  Friend,  accept  the  will  for  the 
deed  this  time.  I  am  sending  you  enclosed  a  little  Paper  of  mine 
lately  contributed  to  the  Bazaar  Ne?vs,  at  Glasgow  University. 
They  have  been  having  a  gigantic  Bazaar  to  help  to  endow  a 
"  Union,"  such  as  they  have  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  for  the 
poor  Glasgow  Students.  I  am  an  unworthy  Hon.  LL.D.  of  that 
University,  and  they  asked  me  to  write  something  for  them — so 
make  Smith  read  it  aloud  to  you  over  the  Christmas  fire.  It  is 
all  perfectly  true ;  I  have  a  copy  of  the  funny  little  Romance  in 
my  own  possession.  The  Bazaar  is  an  enormous  thing.  They 
took  £6000  the  first  day,  and  hope  to  clear  £10,000,  altogether.' 

•  •  ■  ■  •  •  • 

'Oh  !  such  weather  again — wet  and  dull  and  warm,  and  wholly 
un-Christmaslike — 

"  Now  Slave,  joke  on  pain  of  instant  death" — 


164        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  Let  me  look  around  me — Ha !  Tennyson's  new  Volume,  and 
some  charming  things  in  it.  The  Papers  full  of  nothing  but  the 
Gas  Strikes,  and  the  Coal  Strikes — and  every  other  Strike.  Ha  ! 
I  have  it ! 

"  One  Strike  at  least  we  all  admire 
The  Laureate  once  more  '  strikes  the  Lyre '  ! " 

'  It  is  nice  to  hear  of  that  dear  boy  Jim  beginning  his  new  life 
under  such  favourable  auspices.  But  I  trust  he  will  not  (like  so 
many  young  Curates)  take  to  Vestments  and  other  Ritualistic 
vanities.  Send  him  the  following  anecdote  (true)  as  an  awful 
warning.  A  clergymauj  fond  of  artistic  church-furniture,  lately 
gave  out  the  following  among  the  Notices  for  the  week : — 

* "  I  hereby  give  notice  that  on  Sunday  next  the  offertory  will 
be  collected  in  a  new  Pair  of  Bags,  expressly  worked  for  me  by  a 
lady  of  the  Congregation  ' "  The  image  suggested  is  indeed  too 
terrible  to  be  described  save  by  the  Pencil  of  the  Artist. 

'  Well,  dear  old  Friends,  let  me  stop  these  frivolities  and 
ribaldries,  and  wish  one  another  all  good  and  best  things  this 
Christmas  time — I  wish  I  was  with  you,  for  your  northern  air  has 
more  life  in  it  than  this  soft  western  clime.  *'  Dark  and  true 
and  tender  is  the  north,"  and  I  have  always  found  it  so,  especially 
in  Hallamshire. 

'  So  best  love  to  you  all — and  induce  the  Government  (through 
William's  well-known  influence  with  the  Conservative  Party)  to 
give  me  a  Canonry  north  of  the  Trent. — Your  fond  but  foolish, 

'  Alfred  Ainger.' 


The  New  Year  opens  with  a  letter  to  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell. 

'The  Glade, 
'  Branch  Hill,  Jan.  8,  1890, 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — You  have  been  wonderfully  good  to  me 
in  the  matter  of  writing,  and  your  little  note  that  I  found  awaiting 
me  this  afternoon  on  my  return  from  a  flying  visit  to  Bristol  (for 
Chapter  purposes)  interested  me  deeply — and  I  shall  fasten  that 
page  about  Browning's  words  concerning  his  Epilogue  into  my 
copy  (a  First  Edition,  I  am  glad  to  think)  of  Asolando. — The 
Times  of  that  day  —  the  13th — was  the  only  London  Daily 
Paper  that  contained  the  news.     I  walked  into  George's  shop  on 


LETTERS  165 

my  way  down  to  the  Cathedral  in  the  afternoon^  and  found  that 
even  he  had  not  heard  it.  I  then  said  "Have  you  got  the 
volume?" — and  finding  they  had,  I  bought  it  and  carried  it  off. 
Bain  tells  me  that  the  whole  of  the  Edition  had  passed  out  of 
Smith  and  Elder's  hands  by  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
12th — that  the  fact  was  telegraphed  out  to  Venice — and  (as  we 
know)  he  died  at  10  p.m. — most  touching  of  incidents.  I  have  been 
reading  the  volume  again  all  this  evening.  How  full  of  imagina- 
tion, poetry,  picturesqueness  and  above  all  Spiritual  Wisdom  it  is  ! 
a  prodigious  effort  for  a  man  of  seventy-seven.  I  wish  the  tribu- 
tary verse  of  his  admirers  since  had  been  less  terribly  inadequate. 
Swinburne's  I  have  not  yet  seen,  but  I  thought  young  S.'s  in  the 
Athenceum  the  worst  memorial  verses   I   had  ever  read — until  I 

came  upon 's  Sonnet  in  the  Pall  Mall,  and  then  I  felt  that 

even  the  former  must  be  content  to  "  take  a  back  seat."  Well 
might  the  poet  say  : — 

"The  glory  is  fled — and  we  've  only  glitter — 
The  Gold  is  all  spent — and  we  've  only  Brass — 
The  Nightingale's  dead — and  the  Tom-tits  twitter — 

Alas!     Alas!" 

I  've  been  a  wanderer  since  I  last  wrote.  When  I  left  Bristol  on 
Tuesday  of  last  week,  I  went  for  three  nights  to  Torquay,  to  some 
old  friends.  And  the  change,  and  the  rest,  and  the  appetising 
food  did  me  much  good — though  I  gave  a  Reading  for  a  Local 
Charity  in  a  great  big  room  one  afternoon.  Among  other  things, 
I  read  "  Owd  Roa"  out  of  Tennyson's  new  volume,  and  fetched 
the  Torquay-ans  very  much.  (By  the  way,  did  Torquemada  come 
from  that  now  fashionable  Watering  Place  ?)  Then  I  came  up  to 
town  on  the  Friday,  preached  twice  on  Sunday  (once  for  Farrar 
at  St.  Margaret's)  then  next  day  to  Bristol  again  for  our  meeting 
— and  Dividends.  The  other  day  I  came  upon  this  French  Idiom 
in  Bellew.     "Vie  de  Chanoine — Easy  Life" — Ha  !  Ha!  Ha! 

'And  now  I  have  got  to  work  out  my  lectures  for  the  R. 
Institution,  on  which  I  have  been  musing  much  of  late.  When 
are  you  coming  up  to  town  }  When  are  we  to  meet .'' — Ever 
yours,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'The  Glasgow  Bazaar  took  £13,000  in  their  four  days.  Pretty 
well  for  a  country  where  "  Saxpence  "  is  twice  looked  at  before 
"  lavished." ' 


166        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 


To  THE  Same. 

*''0h  where,  and  O  where — is  my  J.  D.  Campbell  gone?" 

'  {Old  song,  adapted.) 

"The  Campbells  are — going?" — {Do,  do.) 

'  The  Glade, 
'  Branch  Hill,  Hampstead,  Feb.  5,  1890. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — What  has  become  of  my  old  and  valued 
correspondent  ? 

'  Perhaps  he  asks,  what  has  become  of  me,  and  I  am  stricken 
dumb.  But  indeed,  I  have  some  shadow  of  excuse — not  that  I 
have  been  Influenzaed — I  almost  wish  I  had — for  I  should  then 
have  had,  in  an  acute  form,  what  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  now 
had  for  three  weeks  in  a  chronic  form.  ...  I  am  thankful  to  say 
it  has  not  yet  affected  my  voice  at  all,  so  that  I  have  not  been 
seriously  interfered  with  in  my  professional  duties,  though  I  am 
much  pulled  down  and  weakened. 

'  Write  me  one  of  your  familiar  and  cheering  letters,  and  bear 
with  my  stupidity  for  a  while.  ("We  must,"  as  Mrs.  Quickly 
says,  "  bear  with  one  another's  confirmities  ") — and  tell  me  if  Mrs. 
Campbell  is  really  better —  and  what  you  are  both  doing  and 
thinking. 

*  How  is  Patmore  ?  I  daily  i-ead  his  little  volume  of  Prose 
criticism,  with  most  of  which  I  am  in  exceeding  great  accord.  I 
have,  by  the  same  token,  just  picked  up  the  first  Edition  of  his 
Nefv  Eros. — With  best  regards  from  us  all,  Yours  ever, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  THE  Same. 

'  February  1890. 

'. . .  A  thousand  thanks  for  your  own  most  kind  wish  to  have  me. 
But  in  any  case  I  would  not  have  come  to  you  just  yet,  because  I 
want  to  rest  while  I  am  away,  and  with  you  I  should  have  grudged 
myself  rest — for  I  should  want  to  talk  to  you,  a7id  be  talked  to  by 
you,  all  day  long,  and  a  great  part  of  the  night !  I  am  no  worse 
in  my  general  health,  but  the  catarrh  does  not  abate. 

'  I  wish  you  well  through  your  visitation  of  the  Innocents,  and 
I  hope  you  won't  be  tempted  to  try  the  Pied  Piper  over  them, 
and  deposit  them  in  an  adjacent  cliff — leaving  yourself,  however, 
outside.' 


LETTERS  167 

To  Mr.  Horace  Smith. 

'The  Glade, 
'  Branch  Hill,  Hampstead,  Feb.  20, 1890. 

'Mv  DEAR  Horace, —  ...  I  have  just  come  back  from  deliver- 
ing the  second  of  three  Lectures  at  the  Royal  Institution  on 
"  Shakespeare's  Art — its  Three  Stages."  All  the  world  and  his 
wife  (chiefly  the  latter)  were  there  —  including  your  Brother 
Bencher,  Master  Clark.  I  may  perhaps  some  day  publish  them  in 
some  form  or  other. 

'.  .  .  Last  Sunday  the  coughing  in  Church  was  something 
terrible.  I  deeply  regret  that  its  effect  upon  myself  was  even 
worse,  for  "  I  pulled  out  my  pencil  and  produced  the  following  "  : 

'THE  PLAINT  OF  THE  POOR  PREACHER. 

'  {Influenza-time). 

'  Your  pity  not  in  vain  we  seek 

Who  serve  beneath  your  parish  steeples ; 
Our  own  coughs  plague  us  all  the  week. 
And  on  the  Sunday — other  people's. 

'  Ever  your  own, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  THE  Same. 

My  Dean  at  Bristol  is  90  years 
old  to-day.  (Too  long  in  bottle, 
and  going   off.)     But  the  other 

day  I  dined  with  old  V.  C.  Bacon  '  The  Glade,  Branch  Hill, 

just  entered  his  95rrf  year  !  Dear  'Hampstead,  March  17,  1890. 

old  man  !  a  sweet  and  beautiful 
old  age. 

'  My  dear  Horace, — Very  glad  to  get  your  "  refresher " — 
though  without  the  customary  fee.  I  ought  long  since  to  have 
returned  the  Wykehamist  which  I  now  send  along  with  this.  The 
dear  boy's  verse  and  prose  are  both  most  promising.  Of  course, 
as  you  say,  the  criticism  is  crude  enough  ;  but  it  is  the  hud — dear 
boy — it  is  the  bud.  You  have  indeed  reason  to  be  proud  of  such 
"Three  musketeers" — and  I  heartily  congratulate  you. 

'  By  the  way,  tell  Nowell  I  wrote  a  few  lines  the  other  night, 
during  a  sleepless  bout,  suggested  by  the  title  of  Browning's  last 


168         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

volume  and  its  appearing  on  the  day  Browning  died ;  you  may 
send  them  to  him^  if  you  like  : — 

'ASOL/iNDO. 
'("From  Asolare— to  disport  in  the  open  air."— Br.'«  Preface.) 

'  Never  more  keen  than  when  his  work  was  ending  ; 
Never  more  brave  ! 
How  sad,  how  swp;et,  when  life  and  death  were  blending, 

This  name  he  gave. 
Like  Hamlet  ^  "  W\\\  you  walk  from  out  the  air?" 
'  'Into  my  gram."  ' 
' .  .  .   I  wish  Tyou  had  heard  me  preach  yesterday  on  the  "  Weak 
Brother     ;  th.ere  was  a  passage  on  Sentiment  beginning  :  "  Never 
sneer  at  Sentiment,"  which  I  think  your  soul  would  have  approved. 
'  I  applied  a  motto  the  other  day  happily.     You  know  those 
photogrc ipfiic  reproductions  that  are  now,  in  illustrated  newspapers 
and  r^iagazines,  taking  the  place   of  the  old  wood-engravings — 
"T.ue  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  by  a  Process — of  the  Sun's  !  " 
i  {N.B. — These  new  methods  are  called  Processes  in  the  profession, 
as  perhaps  you  may  not  know.) — Your  own  trifler, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 
'  No  !  I  certainly  never  meant  to  raise  the  question  of  English 
Literature  as  against  Greek  and  Roman.  My  object  was  to  point 
out  that  the  two  chief  objects  of  teaching  English  Literature  at  all, 
were  to  teach  us  to  enjoy  the  great  writers,  not  to  know  who  their 
maiden  aunts  were,  and  where  they  were  born ;  and  secondly  to 
know  good  literature  from  bad,  when  we  come  upon  it  in  our 
own  times.' 

To  THE  Same. 

'Bramshott  Chask, 
'  LiPHOOK,  Hants,  April  16,  1890. 

'  My  dear  Horace, — I  am  indeed  delighted,  though  not  sur- 
prised, to  hear  about  Nowell.  But  you  will  do  well  not  to  be 
over-much  puffed  up  by  this  reflected  glory :  for  remember  that 
Shakespeare's  father  was  no  one  particular  (and  even  constantly  in 
and  out  of  the  Bankruptcy  Court),  and  as  for  Sir  Isaac  Newton, 
his  parentage  is  at  this  moment  so  obscure  to  me,  that,  for  all  I 
know,  he  "  growed."  However,  you  are  right  to  be  proud  of  such 
boys,  and,  dear  Horace,  I  beg  humbly  to  enter  into  your  pride, 
and  to  share  it,  as  an  old  friend.  (By  the  way,  it  will  probably  in 
the  remote  future  be  as  having  sent  me  to  the  Temple  Church, 
that  you  will  ultimately  be  famous  !) 


LETTERS  169 

'It  was  the  Globe,  I  think,  who  gave  away  ray  glory  to  our 
Austm.  But  he  is  quite  out  of  it !  In  fact,  there  are  really  only 
four  Alfreds— (the  Saxon  King,  the  Poet  Laureate,  Mr.  Justice 
Wills,  and  myself) — who  are  genuine — all  others  being  counter- 
feits. In  calling  my  last  two  lines  weak,  they  never  said  a  truer 
thing.  The  fact  is  that,  reading  the  news  of  the  County  Council's 
Decision  in  the  Times  on  my  way  up  to  London  from  Bristol,  a 
fortnight  ago,  I  suddenly  thought  of  a  Parody  on  Cowper's  "  God 
made  the  country  and  man  made  the  town  " — which  I  altered  to 
"  God  made  the  Heath :  the  L.C.C.  the  Park"  out  of  which  the 
sonnet  grew ;  but  as  my  view  proved  on  the  whole  serious,  I 
thought  the  line,  as  it  stood,  a  trifle  flippant — besides  being 
"  profane,  too,  o'  my  conscience  " — so  I  watered  it  down,  till  the 
alcohol  became  imperceptible.     But  it  don't  matter.  .  .  . 

' .  .  .  Come  and  dine  on  Grand  Day,  May  7th,  and  upset  all 
the  arrangements  by  sitting  next  me.  /  saw  you  in  the  Illustrated 
Lofidofi  News.     Oh  !  what  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  ! — Your  own, 

'  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  I  am  here  till  Friday— then  Hampstead  again.' 

To  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell. 

'A^il  28,  1890. 

' .  .  .  Did  you,  I  wonder,  write  that  short  notice  of  Dowden's 
Edition  in  the  Atkenceum  ?  I  could  not  quite  agree  in  the  harsh 
terms  it  applied  to  W.  W.  for  not  at  once  recognising  the  pro- 
digious greatness  of  the  Ancient  Mariner.  I  am  afraid  that  you 
and  I,  had  we  been  alive  at  the  time,  would  have  probably  been 
no  less  obtuse.  We  have  had  a  hundi-ed  years  to  projit  by  !  I  have 
lately  obtained  the  second  edition  of  the  L.B.,  with  Wordsworth's 
singular  note — W.  Bell  Scott's  copy,  which  he  had  parted  with  to 
Bain.     I  have  got  all  three  editions,  and  am  highly  pleased. 

'  I  long  to  see  you  again,  for  I  have  much  to  talk  about.  Please 
report  yourself  early.  I  am  still  under  the  control  of  my  ailment 
in  the  nose,  which  my  friend  Dr.  Bowles  of  Folkestone  has  now 
charge  of,  and  for  which  he  is  drenching  me  with  quinine  as  my 
best  chance.     But  "  the  summer  is  coming,  my  dear — the  summer 

is  coming."     Who  is  a  Dr. of  the  Browning  Society .''     For 

he  has  written  the  silliest  and  most  arrogant  book  I  ever  read 
about  poor  Browning.  He  says  that  until  the  Society  put  their 
name  to  him,  he  was  the  laughing-stock  of  the  public,  and  the 


170        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

scorn  of  the  critics.    Why,  why,  can  they  not  let  him  alone  ?    He 
also  calls  In  Memoriam  a  Magnum  Opus. 

'Come,  Campbell,  come,  our  heath  as  yet 
Is  just  a  trifle  chill  and  wet. 
But  when  the  wreath  of  May  has  blossomed, 
We  will  make  tracks  for  it,  you  bet  ! 

'  Ever  yours, 

*  Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  THE  Same. 

'RicHJioxND  House, 
'Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  [Summer,']  1890. 

*  My  dear  Campbell, — Your  last  long  and  interesting  letter 
deserved  a  speedier  reply ;  but  in  truth  it  takes  a  long  time  for 
any  news  here  to  "accumulate"  (like  the  cream  on  the  surface  of 
Mr.  Cox's  ha'porth  of  milk)— for  this  is  the  silly  season,  when 
every  one  is  away,  and  the  newspapers  have  not  even  any  local 
gigantic  gooseberries — though  I  did  read  the  other  day  of  the 
return  of  our  old  friend,  the  shower  of  Frogs  !  .  .  . 

'  I  went  up  to  London  for  one  night  on  "  urgent  private  affairs," 
as  I  told  you  I  might ;  and  was  lucky  enough  to  come  in  for  a 
performance  oi  As  You  Like  It,  far  from  being  satisfactory  all  round, 
but  having  many  points  of  interest.  The  wrestling  was  splendid. 
They  had  the  finest  animal  for  "Charles,  the  Duke's  wrestler" 
that  I  ever  saw,  and  yet,  wonderful  to  relate,  Mr.  Drew,  as 
Orlando,  "  threw  him "  most  cleverly.  I  called  in  at  the 
Athenaeum,  and  at  Bain's,  but  there  was  nothing  much  stirring.  .  .  . 

'Are  you  a  strong  admirer  of  the  great  Cardinal  departed? 
Did  you  "collect"  him  in  any  form .>  Do  you  remember  one  of 
dear  Thomas  Hood's  Picture  Puns  where  he  represents  certain 
Tractarian  doings  at  ''No.  90,  Newman  Street,  Oxford  Street." 

'Thank  you  for  your  occasional  papers  in  the  Athenaeum',  let  us 
have  some  more  of  them.  I  wonder  if  you  chanced  to  read 
Besant's  onslaught  in  the  last  Guardian  (but  one)  on  the  S.P.C.K. 
for  "  sweating  "  their  authors.  It  was  a  splendid  bit  of  invective, 
and  will  leave  them  badly  off  for  an  adequate  reply,  I  think.'  .  .  . 

To  Mr.  Cave. 

'Richmond  House, 
' Clifton  Hill,  August  28,  1890. 

'  My  dear  Dan,—  ...  I  congratulate  you  on  your  first  "  Fish." 
For,  as  you  are  by  this  time  well  aw  are,  a  "  Fish  "  is  a  salmon,  and 


LETTERS  171 

all  others  are  counterfeits.  You  don't  mention  his  age  or  weight, 
and  how  long  you  were  a-killing  him.  I  see  from  a  poem  in  this 
week's  Punch  that  the  irrepi-essible  has  been  again  taking  up  his 
Parable  against  Sport.  But  as  "  'Arry,"  the  writer  of  the  Poem, 
with  justice  remarks,  it  is  not  that  'Arrison  so  much  loikes  the  poor 
grouse  and  salmon,  but  that  he  hates  the  "  Bloomin'  Toffs."  .  .   . 

* .   .  .  Yes — I  said  a  few  words  about  Newman,  for  whose  char- 
acter and  piety  I  had  always  great  respect,  though  not  so  much 
for   his   logic.     How   strangely   the    same   book  affects  different 
people  !     I  must  confess  that  the  Apologia  utterly  failed  to  move 
me  in  the  direction  of  Rome,  for  its  very  frankness  showed  the 
singularly  superstitious  bias  of  Newman's  mind.     Do  you  remem- 
oer  how  he  found  some  school-boy  pictures  in  an  old  grammar  of 
his,  and  thought  they  looked  like  a  Rosary — that  this  made  him 
think  he  was  destined  to  join  the  true  Church.    "Ex  pede  !  "    I  have 
lately  been  reading  a  number  of  our  '-'All  Saints'"  Parish  Maga- 
zine, and  this  has  also  failed  to  draw  me  in  the  direction  of  High 
Ritual.     There  is  something  to  me  almost  appalling  in  the  fact  of 
a  teacher  returning  again  and  again,  as  to  a  sin  of  alarming  da?iger, 
to  the  pi-actice  of  communicating  at  the  mid-day  Service  instead 
of  at  one  before  breakfast.     And  this  is  Christianity  after  eighteen 
centuries  !     No,  my  Protestantism  (in  these  respects  at  all  events), 
does  not  become  weaker  with  time,  I  find.     I  have  been  reading 
again  Stanley's  Christian  Institutions  since  I  have  been  here.    They 
are  most  interesting  reading — though  one  is  not  bound  to  accept 
all  his  deductions  from  his  facts.' 

To  Mr.  Smith  of  Brocco  Bank,  Sheffield. 

'  Richmond  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  Summer  1890. 

'  My  dear  Smith, — I  found  your  welcome  letter  in  the  Canon's 
Vestry  at  the  Cathedral  this  morning,  and  I  hasten  to  answer  it  to 
the  best  of  my  ability. 

'  If  you  take  my  advice,  you  will  not  injure  Elliot's  fame  by 
ranking  him  too  high.  He  is  not  a  Wordsworth,  or  a  Burns,  or 
anything  like  it ;  but  none  the  less  is  he  a  genuine  writer,  in  this 
respect  that  he  is  no  "Echo,"  but  a  "  Voice  "—(to  borrow 
Goethe's  famous  distinction).  Of  course  he  owes  much  to  Words- 
worth and  Burns,  and  probably  much  also  to  Cowper,  but  every 
true  poet  owes  much  to  his  predecessors.  But  he  is  no  copyist  or 
imitator,  but  a  genuine  poetic  mind  working  upon  the  scenery  and 


172        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AIIS^GER 

the  characters,  and  the  necessities,  of  his  own  countrymen  and 
neighbourhood. 

*  His  defects  are  the  defects  of  not  being  an  artist ;  I  mean  that 
his  poetry,  even  at  its  best,  is  rarely  perfect  in  ^or/«,  but  has 
poor  lines,  and  poor  thoughts  (even),  side  by  side  with  those  that 
are  most  choice  and  charming.  I  am  writing  from  memory — for 
I  am  without  my  library — but  you  will  find  that  out  of  all  his 
lyrics  there  are  hardly  more  than  three  or  four  that  would  pass 
muster  in  an  anthology  of  the  best.  Remember  how  lovely  certain 
stanzas  of  "  Hannah  RatclifFe  "  are,  and  how  tender  and  pathetic  ; 
but,  if  I  remember,  the  standard  is  not  kept  up  throughout.  One 
or  two  of  the  verses  are  commonplace.  Then  of  course  he  wrote 
too  much — or  rather  published  too  much,  for  his  reputation.  The 
half,  in  his  case,  would  certainly  have  been  "  greater  than  the 
•whole."  But  I  know  his  fame  may  safely  be  left  in  your  hands. 
It  was  you  who  first  shewed  me  (what  was  new  to  me)  that  the 
Corn  Law  Rhymes  were  quite  the  least  worthy  part  of  the  work  he 
did,  and  that  it  is  when  he  was  able  to  forget  social  and  political 
animosities  that  he  found  his  truest  strength. 

'  I  wish  your  Society  would  ask  me  again  to  lecture,  for  it  gives 
me  a  wholesome  excuse  for  visiting  Sheffield,  a  place  and  people  I 
dearly  love. 

'  I  remain  in  Residence  till  the  end  of  September,  and  if  you 
could  have  come  to  me  here  from  Saturday  to  Monday,  any  time 
that  month,  when  I  shall  be  a  lonely  Bachelor,  I  would  give  you  a 
hearty  welcome,  and  two  Cathedral  services,  and  a  sermon,  and  a 
good  glass  of  yvitie  {hut  don't  mention  this  last).  I  have  been  in 
Llangollen  once.  I  went  to  visit  the  Theodore  Mai-tins  at  Brinty- 
silio — or  some  such  name.  Do  you  remember  Sir  Francis  Head 
saying  of  some  Welsh  village — "Grdllemngr" — where  he  spent 
the  night,  that  he  slept  "undisturbed  by  vowels." — With  best 
love,  ever,  dear  Smith,  most  yours,  Alfred  Ainger. 

'  If  you  fail  to  see  what  I  mean  by  not  being  an  artist,  think  of 
Gray's  Elegy,  in  which  there  is  hardly  a  thought  that  rises 
above  mediocrity,  and  yet  which,  by  virtue  of  the  poet's  art,  is, 
and  will  remain,  one  of  the  chiefest  glories  of  English  Poetry.' 

To  Mr.  Du  Mauriee. 

'  Athen^um  Club, 
'Pall  Mall,  Friday  afternoon. 

'  Dear   and   honoured    Poet,  Artist,  Humourist,  and  MAN  i 


LETTERS  173 

— Might  not  something  (in  the  hands  of  the  right  man)  be  made 
out  of  the  following  ? — 

'  In  consequence  of  the  new  fashion  of  ladies  riding  outside  the 
omnibuses,  a  Gymnasium  will  shortly  be  opened  at  the  West  End 
where  they  may  practise  getting  up,  and  getting  down.  N.B. — 
Each  lady  will  bring  her  own  conductor." — Your  own, 

Momus-Clericus, 
'A  real  "merry  cuss."  ' 

To  THE  Same. 

'Richmond  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  [Summer,]  1890. 

'  My  own  dear  Artist — and  Novelist  of  the  Future  ! — How 
grieved  and  ashamed  I  was  to  leave  Hampstead,  for  three  months' 
absence,  without  calling  to  wish  you  and  yours  good-bye,  and  take 
a  tender  leave  !  But  I  was  so  pressed  for  time  when  the  end 
came,  and  I  know  you  will  be  tolerant  and  full  of  forgiveness. 
My  best  love  to  you  all. 

'  I  cannot  give  a  very  good  account  of  myself.  I  have  placed 
myself  under  my  fi-iend  Dr.  Fox's  care,  and  he  is  giving  me  tonic- 
pills  and  "  Sprays  "  for  my  poor  nose  ;  but  seems  to  think  it  is  a 
matter  of  general  health — and  time.  (I  also  want  hot,  dry  weather, 
but  it  does  not  come.)  He  says  most  men  between  fifty  and  fifty- 
five  years  of  age  have  a  baddish  time,  and  intimates  that  I  must 
not  "vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men."  How  are  you,  and  how 
ai*e  you  off  for  jokes.  None  at  all  are  grown  here,  I  am  afraid, 
but  I  am  going  to  a  few  dinner  parties  this  month,  and  will  keep 
my  ears  open.  By  the  way,  yours  is  a  pretty  picture  in  this  week's 
Punch,  though  somewhat  unfair  to  the  nobler  sex.  Surely  you 
have  got  a  new  Poet  in  Putich.  The  lines  this  week  on  the  Sun- 
day Holiday  are  very  fresh  and  touching,  and  not  by  a  known 
hand  that  I  can  recognise. 

' .  .  .  The  following  translation  by  a  recent  undergraduate  is 
not  amiss : — 

' "  Aulide  te  fama  est  vento  retinente  morari." 

'"There  is  a  report,  Aulidus,  that  you  are  dying  from  retention 
of  wind." 

' .  .  .  Write  soon,  and  tell  me  I  am  forgiven,  and  that  your 
heart  is  still  with  your  little  A.  A. 

'  Have  you  let  your  house  ?  and  how  is  the  young  Advocate  at 
Liverpool ? ' 


174        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

To  THE  Same. 

'  Richmond  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  Aug.  27^  1890. 

*  My  dearest  Artist, — It  is  long,  too  long,  since  I  have  heard 
from  you,  or  of  you,  or  written  to  you,  I  have  just  been  chuck- 
ling over  your  drawings  in  this  week's  Pimch  ;  may  I  remark  that 
"  Euphemisms,"  not  "  Euphuisms "  was  the  term  you  intended. 
We  will  discuss  the  distinction  when  next  we  meet  on  "  Hamp- 
stead's  breezy  heath."  By  the  way  Guthrie's  Voces  Poptdi  this 
week  is  wonderfully  funny,  and  I  have  been  screaming  over  it. 

'And  now,  how  are  you,  and  where  are  you.!*  At  Whitby,  I 
have  some  sort  of  idea,  though  I  have  not  yet  traced  the  fact  in 
your  contributions  to  "the  most  wonderful  Paper  in  the  world." 
.   .   .   Resolve  my  doubts,  as  soon  as  may  be. 

'  Can  you  recommend  any  books  ?  .  .  .  I  have  just  reviewed  for 
the  Guardian  the  English  Translation  of  Jusserand's  English  Novel 
before  Shakespeare.  What  an  excellent  and  readable  book  it  is,  I 
used  to  say  of  another  French  critic — 

'Our  English  critics  their  dull  wits  keep  straining, 
When — Enter  Taine  ! — and  all  is  entertaining. 

'  But  the  epigram  would  be  far  truer  if  it  could  be  adapted  to 
Jusserand.     For  a  taste — 

'  A  Frenchman  straying  into  English  fields 
Of  letters,  seldom  has  a  locus  standi. 
But  if  there's  one  to  whom  objection  yields, 
'Tis  Jusserand— he  has  the  "jus  errandi." 

'  Send  this  to  him  with  my  best  respects.  Write  soon.  Our 
dear  love  and  regards  to  you  all, —  Voire  devotie,  A.  A.' 

To  Mr.  Lathbuey,  then  editor  of  The  Gtuirdian. 

'  The  Glade, 
'Branch  Hill,  Hampstead,  November  Z,  1890. 

'  Dear  Mr.  Lathbury, — Only  too  probably  you  have  already 
assigned  Walter  Scott's  Diaries  to  their  appropriate  reviewer. 
This  is  therefore  merely  an  indication  of  one  who  would  other- 
wise have  much  liked  the  task  of  reviewing  them, 

*  I  have  seen  with  my  own  eyes  the  precious  originals.  When 
I  was  last  in  Edinburgh  David  Douglas  showed  me  them,  and  I 
can  never  forget  the  pathetic  sight  of  the  handwriting  becoming 
more  than  illegible,  until  it  broke  down  altogether  in  that  last 
entry  at  Naples  (or  was  it  Florence  ?). — Yours  very  sincerely, 

'  Alfred  Ainger.' 


LETTERS  175 

To  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell. 

'The  Glade, 
'Branch  Hill,  Hampstead,  April  6,  1891. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — I  have  treated  you  very  ungraciously, 
but  alas  !  you  are  used  to  it  by  this  time. 

'  If  for  nothing  else,  I  should  have  thanked  you  for  the  epigram 
on  Lord  Byron — which  made  me  writhe  vi^ith  laughter  all  round 
my  dining-room  when  I  read  it  about  lunch-time.  "  Brutal,"  I 
dare  say  it  is,  but  how  funny !  May  you  make  many  more  such 
"finds"  in  the  Crabb  Robinson  MSS.,  and  confide  them  only 
to  me,  so  that,  like  the  gentleman  who  objected  to  the  modernisa- 
tion of  Chaucer,  you  may  keep  them  for  yourself  and  "a  few 
friends." 

'  I  am  alone,  my  girls  are  at  Darley  Abbey,  and  I  am  in  the 
midst  of  a  spring  cleaning — the  very  uncertain  glory  of  an  April 
day. — Yours  always,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse. 

'The  Glade, 
'Branch  Hill,  Hampstead,  Aprils,  1891. 

'My  dear  Gosse, — Very  many  thanks  for  the  kind  thought 
that  sent  me  Mary  Wilkins.  I  have  already  read  two  or  three 
of  her  sketches,  and  they  have  a  ra7-e  feeling  and  truth — notably 
the  one  of  the  two  old  sisters  who  were  taken  away  to  a  charitable 
"home."  Perfect,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  treatment  here — and 
of  a  kind  beyond  Mrs.  Gaskell  even. 

'  I  am  going  to  give  a  Friday  Evening  Discourse  at  the  Royal 
Institution  on  the  24th.  I  always  i*emember  how  you  came  and 
comforted  me  last  time,  when  I  was  a  novice.  I  shall  not  feel 
so  lonely  this  second  time.  By  the  way,  I  shall  have  to  refer  to 
a  recent  essay  ^  of  yours,  I  think — not  wholly  to  agree  with  it, 
but  not  in  any  way  that  would  displease  you,  I  think. — Yours 
most  truly,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  THE  Same. 

'  The  Glade, 
'Branch  Hill,  Hampstead,  April 28,  1891. 
'  My  dear  Gosse, — Thanks  for  your  most  kind  note.     I  am 
truly  sorry  to  hear  of  the  cause  of  your  absence  the  other  even- 
ing, and  hope  you  are  all  right  again. 

*  The  essay  was  one  on  '  The  Tyranny  of  the  Novel,'  afterwards  included  in 
Mr.  Gosse's  Queslions  at  Issue  {1893). 


176         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  Your  cousin's  version  of  what  I  said  fills  me,  I  confess,  with 
amazement  and  despair !  What  I  hammered  at  all  evening  was 
the  difference  between  the  original  men  and  their  imitators.  I 
maintained  that  every  fresh  and  original  mind  set  going  a  whole 
school  of  copyists — and  that  the  copyists,  from  the  very  nature 
of  the  case,  were  doomed  to  death  sooner  or  later.  I  enumerated 
various  euphuisms,  as  I  called  them,  of  this  nature.  I  said  there 
had  been  Carlyle  euphuisms,  Dickens,  Macaulay  euphuisms,  in 
prose ;  and  in  poetry  a  Pope  euphuism  in  past  days,  and  in  our 
own,  Tennyson,  Swinburne,  Rossetti,  etc.,  ditto.  The  "echoes" 
of  these  various  men,  I  said,  would  not  live — and  I  quoted 
Tennyson's  own  .  .  .  fable  of  "The  Flower  and  the  Weed." 

'  I  expressly,  and  in  so  many  words,  distinguished  the  originals 
from  the  copies — saying  that  the  former  were  worthy,  and  the 
latter  worthless  :  and  lo  and  behold,  one  of  my  audience  goes 
away  and  says  that  I  swept  all  the  originals  away  as  worthless.  I 
cannot  conceive,  unless  I  am  already  far  gone  in  softening  of  the 
brain,  how  I  could  have  so  failed  to  make  my  meaning  clear !  If 
by  any  chance  you  hear  any  different  vei-sions  of  what  I  said,  it 
would  be  a  comfort  to  me  to  know  the  fact. 

'  Let  me  thank  you  again  and  again  for  Mary  Wilkins — at  her 
best  she  seems  to  me  almost  without  a  rival.  Always,  my  dear 
Gosse,  most  truly  yours.  Alfred  Ainger. 

'Among  those  writers  whom  I  am  reported  to  have  ''swept 
off  the  board"  are  men  from  whom  I  have  learned  much,  and 
whom  I  deeply  reverence — Patmore,  Arnold,  Miss  Rossetti,  etc. 
.  .  .  Woe,  woe,  is  me  !  Please  show  this  to  your  cousin ;  for  if 
I  have  so  debauched  the  taste  of  a  whole  audience,  I  would  fain 
recover  one  little  he-\a.m.h  from  the  flock.' 

To  Me.  Dykes  Campbell. 

'July  30,  1891. 

'  Of  literary  news  I  have  nothing  particular.  I  have  been 
keenly  interested  in  L.  Oliphant's  Life.  Did  you  ever  know 
him  ?  It  is  a  strange  story,  but  I  think  I  see  he^s  to  it.  Both  he 
and  his  wife  tried  to  get  "  better  bread  than  is  made  of  wheat " — 
as  the  Spanish  proverb  has  it. 

*  *'  Puns  I  have  not  made  many,  nor  Punch  much "  since  we 
met.  But  the  other  day  my  neighbour,  Mrs.  Fox,  was  describing 
the  voice  of  a  very  deep  contralto  we  know.  "  It  seems  to  come," 
she  said,  "from  the  very  bottom  of  her  boots."     "Ah!"    I  said. 


I.ETTERS  177 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  she  throws  a  great  deal  of  Sole  into  her 
singing."  But  she  did  not  take  it^  so  I  send  it  on  to  you — a 
virgin  jest. 

'Best  regards.  Forgive  me,  and  write  soon  again. — Yours 
ever;,  A.  Ainger.' 

To  Mr.  du  Maukier. 

'  RicH3iOND  House, 
'Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  August  2,  1891. 

'  Dear  Novelist  of  the  Season,  and  artist  of  all  time  ! 

'  How  are  you }  Ai*e  you  going  to  keep  your  Bank  Holiday 
alone  ?  And  have  you  got  any  new  subjects  for  drawings,  and 
are  you  going  to  break  some  new  ground,  and  why  have  you 
never  done  the  "Soldier  and  his  Kennel,"  and  is  not  Anstey 
Guthrie  excellent  in  his  two  friends  on  their  travels  ?  This  last 
instalment  (with  the  American  and  his  daughter)  is  surely  the 
very  finest  and  truest  comedy.  What  a  play  he  would  write  if 
he  could  only  construct  a  good  plot  on  a  genial  theme. 

'  This  next  fortnight  I  am  going  to  get  away  a  bit  for  a  day 
or  two  at  a  time,  for  we  close  our  Cathedral  for  cleaning — the 
"  Priest-like  task  of  pure  ablution,"  as  Keats  calls  it. 

'  Have  you  seen  a  book  called  a  Group  of  Noble  Dames  by 
Hardy  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  that  men  would  beware  of  sensationalism  and 
seeking  for  new  and  startling  subjects  and  situations ! 

'  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  of  that  great  success  of  your  venture. 
I  await  October,  and  the  two  handsome  volumes — Oct  {ober -\- avo), 
as  we  write  in  mathematics.  How  are  the  dear  family — and  is 
Sylvia  once  more  in  the  bosom  of  that  family .''  And  when  do 
you  start  for  Whitby  }     What  will  be  your  address  } 

'  Report  yourselves  to  your  lost  and  forlorn  Canon. — Yours 
always  and  devotedly,  Alfred  Ainger. 

*.  .  .  Many  thanks  for  the  Whitaker — next  to  my  woollen 
over-waistcoat,  my  chief  earthly  comforter.' 

To  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse. 

'The  Glade, 
'Branch  Hill,  Hampstead,  December  SO,  1891. 

'  My  dear  Gosse, — I  am  truly  ashamed  of  myself  for  not  sooner 
putting  on  paper  my  sincere  thanks  for  your  pretty  book,  the 

M 


178         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

greater  portion  of  which  I  have  now  read  with  great  pleasure, 
the  only  drawback  being  that  they  (the  essaylings)  almost  all 
leave  off  too  soon.  Like  Mr.  Squeers's  boys  and  the  milk  and 
water,  I  had  just  drunk  enough  "to  make  me  wish  for  more/' 
when  I  found  the  chalice  dashed  from  my  lips.  Many  of  them 
awakened  pleasant  memories.  I  had  long  ago  discovered  (of 
course  through  Wordsworth)  the  merits  of  Lady  Winchelsea ; 
then  it  was  John  Buncle,  you  remember,  that  Charles  Lamb 
called  a  "  healthy  book,"  and  the  Scotch  gentleman  demurred, 
having  heard  the  term  previously  applied  to  a  climate  or  situation, 
but  never  to  a  hook. 

'Then  the  account  of  the  Barnacle  Tree  in  Gerard's  Herbal 
recalled  Hood's  delightful  fancy  as  to  the  origin  of  the  myth. 
An  old  cobbler  having  pawned  his  gold-mounted  spectacles  to 
purchase  his  Christmas  dinner,  a  rumour  got  about  that  "  Bai*- 
nacles  produce  geese."     It  is  lovely,  is  it  not  ? 

'Altogether  your  book  is  not  only  {pace  the  Scotchman) 
"  healthy,"  but  lively  and  stimulating.  Give  us  some  more  out 
of  your  eighteenth  century  stores.  I  know  the  quarry  is  in- 
exhaustible. 

'I  am  not  writing  in  very  high  spirits,  for  death  and  illness 
are  all  around.  May  the  coming  year  bring  you  all  health  and 
prosperity,  my  dear  Gosse ;  and  pray  believe  me,  in  spite  of  all 
my  waywardness,  yours  most  sincerely,  Alfred  Ainger,' 


To  Mr.  Dykks  Campbell. 

'Athen.el'm  Club, 
'P^LL  Mall,  S.VV.,  February  10,  1892. 

'  Dear  Campbell, —  .  .  .  You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that 
my  "Picture"  (so  the  editor  calls  it)  is  to  be  in  Vanitij  Fair  this, 
week.  The  editor  wrote  to  advise  me  of  the  fact,  and  to  ask  if 
I  would  supply  them  with  my  age,  and  some  other  pathetic 
details.  Thinking  it  better,  in  dealing  with  such  people,  to 
'Hake  it  lyiiig  down"  rather  than  "fighting,"  I  wrote  civilly  and 
supplied  them  with  a  few  facts — such  as  the  length  of  time  I 
had  been  at  the  Temple  (a  touching  and  interesting  t/ierne  which 
may  be  trusted  to  waken  up  the  Prime  Minister,  or  other  dis- 
pensers of  Patronage).  But  what  will  my  "Picture"  be  like.? 
I  know  I  shall  have  yours  and  Mrs.  Campbell's  deep  sympathy 
and  good  wishes  for  my  recovery. 


LETTERS  179 

*  I  shall  write  again  to-morrow,  to  send  you  two  enclosures  I 
want  you  to  see. — Yours  ever,  Alfred  Ainger. 

'  The  pudding  was  prepared  for  yesterday's  dinner — and  a 
solecism  of  deep  enormity  ensued.  I  had  tivo  helpings.  It  is 
the  orange,  I  have  discovered,  that  gives  it  its  sublimity  of 
distinction.' 


To  jNIk.  Horace  Smith. 

'  The  Glade, 
'Branch  Hill,  Hampstead,  March  16,  1892. 

'  My  dearest  Horace, — Indeed  I  had  heard  nothing  of  your 
illness,  or  of  course  I  should  have  written.  How,  indeed,  should 
I  have  heard,  unless  my  dear  neighbour,  Mrs.  Charles,  had  informed 
me — and  she  did  not.  I  do  hope  this  blessed  change  of  weather 
to-day  ("  Each  moment  sweeter  than  before  " — Wordsworth  ! 
Ahem!)  will  speedily  bring  you  round  again — ''solvitur  acris 
hiems  grata  vice  veris  et  Favoni,"  as  your  namesake  once 
remarked — and 


t  (e 


When  the  wind  blows,  the  fever  will  fall 
And  up  will  go  stomach,  liver,  and  all." 

*  Nowell  is  a  strange  Oxonian,  not  even  to  know  the  Institutions 
of  his  own  University.  My  term  of  office  as  Select  Preacher  ^ 
does  not  even  begin  till  next  October,  so  that  there  has  been 
no  "postponement"  whatever.  I  then  hold  office  for  two  years, 
during  which  time  i  shall  pi'obably  have  four  or  five  turns  (more 
"select"  therefore  than  "numerous" — hence  the  name). 

'  I  hope  Nowell  will  do  well  in  his  coming  exam.,  and  that,  as 
the  Apostle  (all  but)  said,  "  his  '  Moderations '  will  be  known  unto 
all  men."  Give  him  my  love  when  you  write,  and  exhort  him  not 
to  do  disci-edit  to  my  friendship,  or  outrage  to  my  hopes. 

*.  .  .  Do  you  want  any  papers  or  books  to  read  during  your 
convalescence  ?  Let  me  know,  and  I  will  send  you  some.  I  have 
made  no  jokes  lately,  or  I  would  send  the7n.  Though  I  did  make 
a  happy  quotation  at  Marlborough !  The  Head  Master  told  me 
that  a  neighbouring  gentleman,  who  had  been  touring  in  Switzer- 
land, gave  a  lecture  on  the  subject  to  the  boys,  illustrated  with 

'  Ainger  had  this  year  been  appointed  as  Select  Preacher  at  Oxford. 


180        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

magic  lantern  views.  "Ah!"  I  said,  "they  used  to  do  that  in 
Juvenal's  day,  you  remember — 

'  " .  .  .  I  demens,  curre  per  Alpes 
Ut  pueris  placeas. " 

'  But  the  neatest  thing  I  ever  heard  was  said  by  a  member  of 
my  cloth,  Archdeacon  Burney,  the  other  day.  He  was  at  a 
meeting  at  Rochester,  when  a  list  of  subscriptions  was  being  read 

out:    "Mr.  :    Fifty   Pounds."      "That's   pretty   good,"   he 

whispered  to  his  neighbour^  Archdeacon  Cheetham  (who  told  me 
the  story).  Cheetham,  who  knew  the  giver  was  excessively  rich, 
murmured,  "It  ought  to  have  been  £500!"  to  which  Barney 
instantly  rejoined,  "Ah  !  he  forgot  the  ought]  "  It  is  perfect,  is 
it  not }  "  It  makes  me  so  wild,"  as  Mr.  Toole  says,  that  I  did  not 
say  it  myself!     "  Pereant  qui  ante  nos."  .  .  .  Your  affec*^., 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  THE  Same. 

'  Dyrham  Lodre, 
'  Clifton  Park,  Bristol,  Sunday,  [Summer  1892]. 

*  I  leave  here  on  Friday  next. 
'  Residence  up. 
'  My  dear  Horace, — A  thousand  thanks  for  the  little  book,  and 
for  your  kind  note.  The  verses  are  all  charming  to  me — not  less 
so  because  I  remember  many  of  them  so  well  in  their  origin, 
and  they  bring  back  many  of  the  sweetest  and  saddest  days  of 
my  old  life.  I  am  so  glad  you  included  the  "Little  Curate."  I 
only  wished  I  had  been  allowed  to  appear  oftener,  for  there  must 
be  many  verses  in  your  Portfolio,  dating  from  college  and  Alrewas 
days  concerning  both  you  and  me,  and  I  would  gladly  have  gone 
down  to  posterity,  a  fly  in  your  amber.  The  word  "  fly  "  reminds 
me  of  our  joint  poem  : 

'  "  AV'ill  you  walk  into  my  curacy  .'' 
Said  Haweis  to  A.  A." 

Where  is  that  delightful  lyric  disappeared  to  .^ 

'  Your  parodies  are  for  the  most  part  excellent.  "■  Give  that 
Brief  to  me" — lra?isceiideut.  I  had  forgotten  it,  though  I 
remember  new  your  showing  it  to  me  when  written.  Really,  they 
touch  me  deeply — even  the  humorous  verses — because  they  stir 
such  memories,  and  I  find  myself,  like  Mr.  Augustus  Moddle, 
standing  gazing  with  tears  in  my  eyes — "  especially  when  it 's 
anything  of  a  comic  nature  ! "  Mr.  Todgers  said. 

' ...  If  I  could  forget  for  a  moment  that  you  were  a  Bencher 


LETTERS  181 

(and  can  order  me  at  any  time  to  immediate  execution)  I  would 
explain  that  you  are  a  hard  body  to  please,  or  else  I  would  ask  for 
six  months  leave  of  absence,  which  might  set  me  up  in  health. 
'  God  bless  you,  dear  Horace. — Ever  your  affec*®., 

'A.    AiNGER. 

'  Do  you  know  this  excellent  French  pun  on  Labby  ? 

'  "  Quelle  est  '  la  Verite  ? ' 
La  boue  chere  a  six  sous." ' 

To  Mr.  du  Maukieii. 

'  Dyrham  Lodge, 
'  Clifton  Park,  Bristol,  July  22,  1892. 

'My  dear  Kicky, — Your  kindly  letter  was  a  generous  return 
for  my  scrimpy  effusion.  I  hope  you  are  all  well,  and  that  all 
promises  well  for  the  12th— for  the  happy  pair,  I  mean,  not  for 
the  wnhappy  Braces  who  will  also  be  despatched  in  divers  parts 
of  the  kingdom  that  morning  !  Punch  very  good  again  this  week 
— Anstey  Guthrie  quite  transcendent.  What  a  power  he  has  got 
of  transcribing  certain  forms  of  seamy  life,  and  what  political 
good  sense  and  acumen  there  is  in  his  satire. 

'  Is  there  anything  new  in  the  book  world  ?  I  wonder  if  you 
were  at  the  last  Literary  Society  Dinner  ?  Some  of  the  random 
newspapers  are  saying  that  if  Gladstone  comes  into  office  our 
friend,  the  Chief,  is  to  be  Lord  Chancellor,  but  I  should  doubt  it. 

' .  .  .  I  am  going  up  to  London,  I  expect,  next  week,  for  a 
night,  to  see  my  doctor,  but  I  shall  not  reach  so  far  north  as 
Hampstead. 

'  Best  love  to  you  all. — Your  own  Canon  in  Residence,    A.  A. 

'I  have  told  Frank  that  no  doubt  the  G.O.M.  will  try  to  bear 
his  moderate  majority  with  "  Forty-two-d."  ' 

To  THE  Same. 

'Dyrham  Lodge, 
'  Clifton  Park,  Feast  oj  St.  Liibbock,  1892. 

'Sea-Side  Bookseller's  Shop. 

'  Lady  Visitor  (in  search  of  something  to  read).  "  Have  you 
Browning's  Poems .'' " 

'  Solemn  Bookseller.  "  No  !  Ma'am.  None  of  us  down  here  can 
understand  him  !  " 

'Lady  V.  "Have  you  Praed?" 

' S.  Bookseller.  "Yes,  ma'am.  We  tried  that,  but  it  was  of 
no^use !" 


182        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  I  read  of  this  as  having  actually  happened.  This  may  be 
doubtedj  but  it  is  surely  beti  trovato. 

'  How  good  of  you  to  flatter  my  vanity,  both  as  a  "  Discourser  " 
and  as  a  inan  (for  Canons  after  all  are  human  !),  by  your  report  of 
the  two  Divine  Ladies  who  called  on  you.  But  why  leave  me 
half  unsatisfied  by  a  too  careless  calligraphy  ?  Is  it  Jewell  or 
Jewett,  or  Jowett — or  what  other  "  J  "  .^  I  wonder  if  it  was 
yesterday  week,  July  24th,  that  they  were  here.  I  did  preach 
that  day  on  a  theme  which  might  fairly  be  described  as  Tolerance. 
(I  suppose  I  may  put  them  down  for  thirty  copies  of  my  next 
volume.) 

'  The  very  day  after  I  came  home,  oddly  enough,  I  received 
a  sweet  letter  from  your  dear  Arthur,  dated  from  the  Northern 
Circuit,  telling  me  the  date  of  the  wedding,  and  most  kindly 
reiterating  the  young  folk's  wish  that  I  should  be  present,  and 
I  quite  hope  to  manage  it. 

'  We  are  having  a  quite  lovely  Bank  Holiday,  but  I  wish  I  was 
on  "  Hampstead's  breezy  Heath  "  with  the  artist  of  my  choice. 
By  the  way,  at  Dr.  Fox's  last  evening,  I  read  in  the  Magazine  of 
Art  for  April,  or  thereabouts,  a  sympathetic  article  on  you  with 
illustrations  from  P.  T,     You  doubtless  have  seen  it. 

'  My  friend  Ward,  of  Owens  College,  writes  me  that  he  has  been 
much  amused  with  Charles  Keene's  Lije.  I  think  I  7nust  buy  it, 
in  memory  of  the  dear  old  Quixote. 

'  Write  again  (Type-writer  will  do).  Why  does  not  May  take 
up  that  " admirable  substitute  for"  the  piano,  and  then  (with  a 
little  practice)  she  might  set  down  your  most  inspired  utterances 
even  as  they  flow  in  lava-like  torrents  from  etc.,  etc. 

'  "So  careful  of  the  Type  !— Oh  yes."— Tennyson. 

'  Your  love-sick  Canon. 

'.  .  .  Scene  at  dinner  at  Country  Inn — favourite  haunt  of 
amateur  artists.     (Technicalities  overheard  in  a  lull  of  general 

conversation) : — 

'  "  Do  you  wash  ^ 
No,  I  scratch." ' 

To  THE  Same. 

'DvRHAM  Lodge, 
'  Clifton  Park,  Bristol,  Sept.  7th,  1892. 

'  Deaii  and  distinguished  Artist  I — How  glad  was  I  to  see  your 
writing,  and  dating  from  that  place   ol  places — Whitby.     Would 


LETTERS  183 

that  it  were  possible  to  join  you  there — but  I  am  "tethered" 
here,  like  the  ^'poor  little  ass,  of  an  oppressed  race,"  and  may 
not  break  away  from  my  allotted  three  acres  (and  no  cow)  until 
the  30th — the  day  you  return.  After  that,  even,  my  move- 
ments are  uncertain,  for  I  must  be  here  for  our  quarterly  Chapter 
meeting  on  October  4th  and  5th. 

'I  am  grieved  about  Gerald's  new  Firm.  .  .  .  But  don't  let 
him  go  on  the  stage — even  if  he  were  born  to  be  a  second 
"Albert  Chevalier."  It  is  an  atmosphere  of  "Four  'alf"  in  which 
I  feel  he  would  not  be  happy.  No  !  it  is  a  delightful  amusement — 
but  a  horrid  trade  ! 

'  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  good  news  of  the  dear  young  couple. 

The  other  day  I  was  with  my  old  friend  A ,  and  there  I  met 

an  old  friend,  a  Miss  D (lately  married  to  an  old  chap — 

"en  secondes  noces  "),  and  found  it  was  her  old  rooms  in  Craven 
(Hill.?  Gardens.''),  which  I  remember  well,  that  Arthur  and 
Sylvia  have  taken.     Surely,  this  is  a  small  world  ! 

'Punch  has  been  very  good  of  late.  Your  drawing  of  the 
young  doctor  and  his  wife  to-day  is  quite  charming.  Furniss's 
idea  of  the  "New  Cabinet,"  a  few  weeks  ago,  masterly.  This 
evening  I  have  asked  a  country  clergyman  near  here  and  his 
daughter  to  come  over  and  dine,  and  go  to  Hengler's  Circus,  where 
real  Lions — three  in  hand — are  driven  harnessed  round  the  arena. 
If  this  is  not  an  intellectual  treat,  I  have  yet  to  learn  what  is  ! 

'  I  have  been  expecting  my  dear  friend  Ward,  of  Owens  College, 
to  visit  his  aunt  (also  his  mother-in-law)  here  this  week,  but  he 
has  again  been  laid  up  with  gout — his  old  enemy. 

'  Write  again  soon — and  on  a  paHicidarly  wet  day,  ask  May  and 
Gerald  to  add  Postscripts. — Your  ever  devoted, 

'Alfred  Ainger. 

'Best  love  and  regards  to  the  many-talented,  many-charmed 
family.' 

To  Miss  Sturge  on  the  Death  of  her  Sister. 

'  The  Glade, 
'  Branch  Hill,  Hampstead,  1892. 

'  Dear  Miss  Sturge,  ...  It  is  indeed  a  strange  and  startling 
reminder  of  the  mysteries  of  God's  government  and  discipline 
that  we  cannot  fathom — that  we  can  only  bow  the  head  and 
wait. 

'You   and   yours    will    find    your   best   comfort,    I    know,    in 


184         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

remembering  how  that  Ufe  was  spent :  in  ministry  to  the  poor 
and  to  all  who  needed  guidance  and  comfort ;  and  such  are 
surely  blest — in  their  lives,  and  in  what  follows  this  life. 

' .  .  .  I  should  very  much  like  to  have  the  little  sketch  of  your 
sister  of  which  you  speak.  It  is  good  always  to  know  the  "  hidden 
life  "  of  the  reticent  ones  of  the  world,  and  to  be  assured  that  all 
real  strength  comes  from  the  same  One  Source,  after  all.  .  .  . 
No  !  thank  God,  death  does  not  take  away  : — 

'  "  Thou  takest  not  away,  O  Death  ! 
Thou  strikest — absence  perisheth. 

Indifference  is  no  more ; 
The  future  brightens  on  our  sight ; 
For  on  the  past  hath  fallen  a  light 

That  tempts  us  to  adore." 

WoHDSWOHTH. 


'  The  departed  are  very  near  to  us  still  when  we  share  their 
best  aims  and  endeavours  and  sympathies ;  there  is  no  surer  bond 
than  this — for  we  are  then  fellow-labourers  with  them  and  with 
God.' 


Alfred  Ainger  at  'ihe  age  of  fifty. 

From  a  pitotojrra/ih  by  Messrs.  Elliott  &■  Fry. 


CHAPTER   XI 

LECTURER   AND    CRITIC 

'  "  On  their  own  merits  modest  men  are  dumb  "  (G.  Colman). 
But  I  had  very  good  audiences  and  they  did  not  throw  the 
chairs  at  me,'  so  Ainger  wrote  on  the  programme  that  he  sent 
to  a  friend,  of  one  of  his  lectures — the  '  Three  Stages  of  Shake- 
speare's Art' — given  at  the  Royal  Institution.  The  public 
need  not  be  modest  for  him,  and  the  words  inscribed  in  his 
honour  on  the  memorial  window  in  Bristol  Cathedral  by  no 
means  overstate  the  truth.  '  As  Lecturer  on  great  writers,  he 
had  few  equals,'  they  run,  'face,  voice,  gesture  and  subtle 
humour  each  contributing  to  the  charm  of  his  interpretations.' 

Between  1880  and  1892,  Ainger  lectured  continually  at  Hamp- 
stead,  at  Sueath?m.  at  Edinburgh,  at  Glasgow,  at  Bristol,  at 
Manchester,  at  Sheffield,  at  Newnham.  It  was  in  1889  that  he 
was  first  asked  to  do  so  at  the  Royal  Institution.  '  I  have 
got  the  Blue  Ribbon  of  literature,'  he  jubilantly  told  an 
acquaintance,  and  it  was  there  that  some  of  his  best  dis- 
courses were  given.  All  who  heard  him  came  away  with  the 
picture  of  his  spirit-like  figure  as  he  stood  leaning  up  against 
the  desk,  now  half-lost  behind  it,  now  dominating  it  with  a 
dignity  all  his  own,  as  if  he  had  just  come  from  the  land  of 
literature — '  the  land  of  poetry  ...  in  reality  no  man's  land ' 
— and  were  only  there  to  represent  it.  They  will  recall  the 
mobile  face,  the  expressive  hand,  the  swift  and  sudden  gleam 
of  satire,  like  the  straight  shooting  of  an  arrow,  the  change 
again  to  tranquillity — all  that  he  said  enhanced  by  the  read- 
ings that  he  gave  from  poet  and  prose- writer,  which  made  his 
lectures  so  unique. 

Sometimes  he  would  stand  as  he  spoke. 

'  None  of  us/  writes  one  of  his  Bristol  audience,  '  who  had  the 
privilege  of  being  present  on  these  occasions  will  ever  forget  him 

185 


186        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

as  he  .  .  .  sat,  sometimes  easily  in  his  chair,  and  "  led  our  minds 
the  roundabout."  Nor  shall  we  forget  how  in  the  intervals  he 
used  to  prowl  about  the  recessed  platform,  as  one  has  seen  happy 
restless  creatures  pace  up  and  down  a  den,  sublimely  unconscious 
of  the  sightseers  below,  .  .  .  He  kept  his  audience  in  a  delight- 
ful state  of  uncertainty  as  to  what  he  was  going  to  say  next. 
It  was  obvious  to  all  from  the  first  moment,  when  he  looked 
round  the  crowded  room,  that  he  was  going  to  enjoy  himself;  and 
the  audience  instinctively  knew,  when  they  saw  his  humour,  that 
he  would  not  enjoy  himself  alone.  Sometimes  to  those  who 
could  not  help  watching  the  hands  of  the  inexorable  clock,  the 
last  part  of  the  lecture  was  almost  spoiled  by  the  overwhelming 
feeling  that  the  delight  must  so  soon  come  to  an  end.  The  hours 
were  so  short  when  this  magician  of  the  wonderful  voice  held  us 
in  a  thrall.'  ^ 

Many  of  his  lectures  were  published  in  his  lifetime  as 
articles.  Of  the  twelve  essays  that  he  contributed  to  Mac- 
mUlati's  Magazine^  many  had  first  been  heard  in  public,  though 
their  form  was  of  necessity  elaborated  before  they  went  to 
press.  The  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb,  The  Teaching  of  English 
Literature,  Poetae  Mediocres,  Nether  Stowey,  instances  in 
point,  possess  a  crispness  and  a  literary  finish  not  to  be 
expected  from  the  lectures  which  his  own  hand  did  not  pre- 
pare for  print.  The  first  paper,  BooTis  and  their  Uses,  signed 
'  Doubleday '  (for  Doubled  A),  was  written  when  he  was  but 
twenty-two  ;  the  remaining  eleven  appeared  between  1871  and 
1896,  when  his  contributions  closed  with  an  article  upon  his 
old  friend,  Alexander  Macmillan,  who  died  in  that  same  year. 
They  range  over  various  ground :  some  are  portraits  of  in- 
dividuals, like  those  on  Sir  George  Rose,  or  on  Charles  Mathews, 
the  actor ;  in  others  he  handles  the  drama,  as  in  the  one  upon 
The  New  Hamlet,  or  his  sketch  of  Charles  Dickens's 
theatricals;  but  the  greater  number  concern  authors  and 
literature — they  are,  as  it  were,  pleasant  strolls  along  its 
grass-paths,  too  definite  to  be  called  rambles,  yet  with  nothing 
of  the  constitutional  about  them.  And  of  these,  the  best 
are  those  that  circle  round  Lamb  and  the  Lake  School  of 
Poets.  Lamb's  Letters,  Nether  Stowey,  Coloidge's  Ode  to 
1  Canon  Atnger:  a  Short  Study,  by  George  Hare  Leonard. 


LECTURER  AND  CRITIC  187 

Wordsworth,  which,  as  Canon  Beeching  says,  throws  new 
light  upon  the  character  of  Coleridge — these  are  among  the 
best  things  that  came  from  his  pen,  whether  for  charm  or 
insight,  or  for  that  kind  of  candid  precision  which  always  dis- 
tinguished his  judgments.  And  to  these  may  be  added  How  I 
traced  Charles  Lamh  in  Hertfordshire,  given  rather  later  and  not 
published  till  after  his  death,  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine,^  '  a 
narrative  of  adventure  at  Widford,'  with  '  more  of  the  true 
Elia  flavour  about  it  than  about  many  essays  written  more 
consciously  upon  that  inimitable  model." 

The  lectures  delivered  at  the  Royal  Institution  were  not 
prepared  by  him  for  publication.  He  delivered  them  from 
time  to  time,  from  1889  onwards;  two  Friday  evening  dis- 
courses, 'True  and  False  Humour  in  Literature,'^  and 
'  Euphuism  Past  and  Present,'^  having  been  given  before 
1892,  besides  a  course  of  three  on  the  'Three  Stages  of 
Shakespeare's  Art.'* 

'The  two  chief  objects  of  teaching  English  literature  at 
all  are  to  teach  us  to  enjoy  the  great  writers,  not  to  know 
who  their  maiden-aunts  were  ,  .  .  and  to  know  good  litera- 
ture from  bad  when  we  come  upon  it  in  our  own  time.'  These 
words,  which  occur  in  a  letter  already  given,  express  Ainger's 
attitude  towards  books.  Though  he  was  as  little  impersonal  in 
literature  as  in  life,  personalities  were  never  first  with  him,  and, 
unlike  the  lecturer  of  the  modern  school,  he  seldom  dealt  in 
biographical  detail.  His  lectures  and  his  essays — for  to  speak 
of  him  as  lecturer  and  writer  is  all  one — will  stand  not  so  much 
as  contributions  to  knowledge,  but  as  a  record  of  his  likes 
and  dislikes,  of  his  outlook  upon  men  and  books.  Perhaps  his 
most  complete  confession  of  faith  as  a  critic  is  contained  in  a 
lecture  which  he  gave  on  the  Teaching  of  English  Literature,^ 
so  complete  that,  to  get  his  whole  view,  we  cannot  do  better 
than  quote  a  few  pages  from  it,  as  they  stand. 

^  May  1904.  2  April  gth,  1889. 

3  April  24th,  1 89 1.  ■*  February  1890. 

°  Given  at  University  College,  Bristol,  and  published  in  Macmillan's 
Magazine,  December  1889.  Like  the  above-mentioned  lectures,  it  is  now 
included  in  the  volume  of  Lectures  and  Essays,  edited  by  the  Rev.  Canon 
Beeching,  1905. 


188        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  Would  it  be  a  worthless  result  of  two  or  three  years'  study  of 
the  great  realities,  of  which  these  are  the  counterfeits,  to  be  able 
to  detect  the  base  coin,  and  at  once  nail  it  to  the  counter  ?  I  am 
well  aware  that  fine  taste  is  a  very  rare  faculty  indeed.  "  Taste," 
that  admirable  critic,  the  late  Edward  FitzGerald,  used  to  say,  "  is 
the  feminine  of  genius  "  ;  and,  like  its  male  companion,  it  must 
always  be  the  heritage  of  the  few.  But  there  are  degrees  of  it, 
and  it  may  be  developed  by  training,  and  though  the  best  teach- 
ing in  the  world  will  fail  to  give  some  young  persons  a  relish  for 
Milton  or  Spenser,  the  average  of  failures  need  not  be  greater 
than  in  other  and  older-established  subjects  of  instruction.  .  .  . 
"^ Then  after  all,"  it  may  be  retorted  on  me,  "criticism  does  con- 
sist in  picking  holes  and  finding  faults  ;  and  the  result  of  all  you 
have  said,  if  accomplished,  will  be  to  limit  our  sources  of  innocent 
enjoyment,  and  to  make  us  fastidious  and  one-sided."  Nothing 
can  be  further  from  the  tru;;h.  We  may  truly  say  of  criticism, 
as  was  said  of  religion  in  Dr.  Watts'  hymn,  that  "  It  never  was 
designed  to  make  our  pleasures  less.'  It  is  true  that  it  purifies 
and  elevates  them,  but  it  does  not  diminish  them  in  the  process  ; 
it  incalculably  widens  them.  It  cuts  off  from  our  serious  atten- 
tion a  vast  amount  of  inferior  writing ;  it  teaches  us  to  know  the 
echo  from  the  voice,  the  pale  imitation  from  the  real  thing ;  but 
while  it  takes  away  with  one  hand  it  gives  with  the  other, 
and  gives  far  more  than  it  takes  away.  Criticism  is  meant  to 
make  us  fastidious — fastidious,  that  is,  as  to  the  quality  of  any 
particular  kind  of  literature  ;  but  at  the  same  time,  if  it  is  worth 
anything,  it  extends  indefinitely  the  width  of  our  sympathies  and 
likings.  It  tells  us  not  to  admire  unreal  things  and  feeble  imita- 
tions ;  but  it  also  tells  us  how  many  things  there  are  of  first-rate 
excellence  to  which  our  eyes  have  been  hitherto  sealed.  It  tells  us 
that  though  Shelley  may  be  a  greater  poet  than  Longfellow,  yet 
that  an  original  Longfellow  is  worth  any  number  of  imitation  Shel- 
leys.  It  tells  us  that  to  affect  to  see  no  excellence  in  one  kind  of 
literature,  because  we  see  a  great  deal  (or  think  we  do)  in  some 
other  more  exalted  kind  ;  to  wonder  what  on  earth  people  ever 
admired  in  Pope  because  we  see  a  great  deal  to  admire  in  Tenny- 
son ;  that  this  is  a  sign,  not  at  all  of  the  "  higher  criticism,"  but 
of  a  very  low  and  poor  criticism  indeed  ;  and  any  education  in  taste 
that  has  ended  in  diminishing  the  number  of  remarkable  writers 
that  we  can  derive  pleasure  from,  is  shown  thereby  to  have  been 
no  true  education,  and  to  have  missed  its  mark.  .  .  .  But  there 
is  a  right  and  a  wrong  even  in  matters  of  taste,  and  while  our 


LECTURER  AND  CRITIC  189 

own  taste  is  in  the  process  of  forming,  it  is  of  first-rate  importance 
that  we  should  Ufe  instructed  upon  authority  "  what  we  are  to 
admire  "  ;  that  we  should  at  least  learn  to  suspend  our  dislikes  and 
our  prejudices  till  we  are  in  some  measure  entitled  to  have  them. 
Thei'e  are  certain  writers  in  our  literature  who  have  come  to  be 
called  classics.  What  is  a  classic  ?  A  classic  is,  I  suppose,  a  writer 
who  has  attained  by  the  continuous  verdict  of  successive  genera- 
tions of  readers  and  critics,  a  certain  rank  which  individual  opinion 
is  of  no  avail  to  disturb.  Individual  opinion  no  doubt  very  often 
does  resent,  openly  or  silently,  the  rank  thus  awarded  to  a  writer. 
One  of  John  Leech's  youngsters,  you  may  remember,  confided  to 
another  youngster  (his  friend)  that  he  considered  even  Shakespeare 
a  much  over- rated  man.  And  if  such  a  stretch  of  independent  judg- 
ment as  this  may  be  rai'e,  there  are  certainly  many  other  authors, 
of  the  rank  called  classical,  whose  claims  to  such  recognition  our 
young  men  and  women  frankly  question.  Now  I  conceive  that 
it  is  one  of  the  best  services  the  lecturer  on  English  literature 
can  render,  to  point  out  that  in  this,  as  in  some  other  matters,  the 
verdict  of  continuous  generations  is  more  likely  to  be  right  than 
that  of  the  young  man  or  woman,  however  brimming  over  with  the 
higher  culture.  ...  A  series  of  generations  is  wiser  than  any 
single  generation.  Of  course  no  teacher  of  literature  can  make  his 
students  ultimately  like  any  particular  author.  You  can  take  a 
horse  to  the  water,  but  you  cannot  make  him  drink.  You  may 
lead  your  pupils  to  the  refreshing  streams  of  Wordsworth,  and 
they  may  sip,  and  turn  away.  You  may  lead  them  to  Crabbe, 
"Nature's  sternest  painter,"  and  they  may  refuse  even  to  moisten 
their  lips.  But  the  teacher  may  at  least  give  his  students  a  fair 
chance  and  opportunity  to  learn  what  it  is  in  these  writers  that  has 
made  men  admire  and  love  them ;  he  may  warn  them  that  any 
writer  of  individuality  has  a  claim  upon  some  patience,  and  some 
modesty,  in  those  who  approach  him  as  reader  and  cintic  ;  that  he 
cannot  be  judged,  or  understood,  or  loved,  in  an  hour,  or  a  day. 
The  teacher  may  do  good  service  by  pointing  out  that  if  some  of 
the  noblest  and  profoundest  thinkers  of  this  century  have  con- 
fessed that  they  owe  more  wisdom  and  happiness  to  the  poetiy  of 
Wordsworth  than  they  can  ever  acknowledge,  a  young  critic  should 
never  think  that  the  last  word  on  the  subject  is  spoken  when  he 
has  quoted  the  opening  lines  of  the  amusing  parody  in  the 
"  Rejected  Addresses".  .  .  . 

*  It  is  another  of  the  privileges  of  a  teacher  of  literature  to 
make  sure  that  his  pupils  take  hold  of  every  author  6y  the  right 


190        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

end — that  they  do  not  begin  with  his  inferior  writings  (for  every 
author  has  best  and  worst),  or  with  what  is  longest  and  apt  to 
tire  the  young  patience.  But  in  any  case — an  author  must  be 
read.  And  as,  while  we  lecture  upon  an  author,  we  cannot  ensure 
that  he  shall  be  read,  I  have  often  felt  that  to  read  a  considerable 
portion  of  an  author  with  a  class — allowing  his  power  or  his  pathos 
or  his  charm  to  grow  and  win  upon  us  as  we  went  along — is  really 
almost  the  only  certain  way  of  ensuring  that  the  writer  shall  ever 
produce  the  good  we  seek  from  him.  I  know  the  difficulties  in 
the  way :  want  of  time,  the  chief.  And  then  it  looks  so  easy  and 
so  indolent !  "  Why  should  I  send  my  daughter  to  a  class  to  read 
a  book  ? "  asks  the  aggrieved  parent.  "  She  can  do  that  at  home. 
Why  should  I  pay  that  professor  to  do  what  cannot  cost  him  any 
trouble  or  preparation — any  one  can  listen  to  a  pupil  reading  a 
book  !  "  Alas  !  Alas  !  how  little  people  know  !  And  what  is  the 
consequence  .''  That,  to  repeat  an  illustration  I  used  at  the  outset 
of  my  lecture,  many  a  young  student  can  write  out  a  "  Life  of  Sir 
John  Suckling  with  Dates,"  which  is  not  literature ;  and  never 
come  to  the  point  of  gaining  pleasure  from  those  two  or  three 
charming  lyrics  which  he  has  left  us,  and  of  perceiving  that  the 
"  Ballad  of  a  Wedding,"  or  the  song,  "  Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond 
Lover  ? "  are  for  real  gaiety,  humour,  and  vitality,  worth  nine- 
tenths  of  the  machine-made  rondeaux  and  triolets  which  make  up 
the  vers  de  societe  of  to-day.  And  to  understand  this,  is  to  have 
got  so  far  towards  understanding  what  literature  is,  and  why  certain 
writings  have  become  classical  and  certain  others  have  not.  And, 
to  repeat  yet  once  more  what  I  said  at  the  beginning,  the  love  of 
the  text  may  then  awaken  an  interest  in  the  notes.  But  that 
process  is  not  capable  of  being  reversed.  What  is  Sir  John 
Suckling  to  me  otherwise  ? 

'  If  he  be  uot  fair  to  me — 
What  care  I  how  fair  he  be .'' 

'.  ,  .  I  have  no  intention  of  advocating  the  study  of  English 
literature  as  an  amusement.  I  have  tried  this  evening  to  show 
two  things  :  (1)  that  happiness,  or  joy,  as  an  end  to  be  sought,  is  a 
wholly  different — even  a  wholly  opposite — thing  to  amusement ; 
and  (2)  that  the  deep  and  profitable  acquaintance  with  any  great 
author  can  only  result  from  a  joint  application  of  brain  and  heart 
that  can  never  be  easy,  or  consist  with  the  mere  instinct  of  killing 
time.  It  is  not,  let  me  say  once  more,  by  reading  light  literature 
the  Solomon  Grundys  among  books  that  are  born  on  a  Monday 


LECTURER  AND  CRITIC  191 

and  die  before  their  little  week  is  out — that  we  learn  to  know 
good  literature  from  bad.' 

^  I  am  well  axoare  that  taste  is  a  very  rare  faculty  indeed^  the 
words  at  the  outset  of  this  passage,  sound  the  note  of  his 
personality.  It  was  this  '  very  rare  faculty,'  rather  than 
originality,  which  gave  him  a  first  place  among  men  of  letters, 
and  through  which  he  conveyed  his  literary  message  to  his 
public.  For  he  had  one  chief  means  at  his  disposal  by  which 
he  carried  out  his  precept — one  distinguishing  feature  of  his 
lectures  which  must  be  dwelt  on  before  we  enter  more  into 
their  nature.  This  was  his  reading.  Somebody  once  said  of 
him  that  he  quoted  where  others  discussed,  substituting  apt 
interpretation  for  lengthy  analysis.  And  it  was  true.  His 
reading  did  not  only  reveal  fresh  truth  by  its  beauty — the 
slightest  inflection  in  his  voice  was  often  a  moral  epigram,  a 
delicate  application  of  some  line  he  was  reading  to  his  audience. 
When  he  gave  Chaucer's  picture  of  the  prosperous  church- 
going  ladies,  quarrelling  for  precedence  over  pews,  he  appeared 
to  evoke  in  their  absurdity  many  petty  human  bickerings;  and 
when  he  impersonated  Edgar  in  King  Lear^  it  seemed  as  if  he 
were  glorifying  the  whole  of  human  loyalty.  In  the  reading 
oiLear,  perhaps  of  all  other  plays,  his  interpretative  gifts  were 
best  summed  up.  To  hear  him  in  the  storm  scene  was  to  feel 
the  full  impressiveness  of  poetic  imagination.  His  Fool  was 
Shakespeare's  own  Fool — the  subtlest  compound  of  shrewd 
insight  and  innocence,  pathos  and  frolic,  servility  and 
impertinence,  waywardness  and  dignity ;  now  a  prince,  then  a 
child,  and  now  a  will-o'-the-wisp.  And  the  realisation  of  the 
other  characters  was  on  the  same  level.  Lear's  sorrow  and 
dignity  were  part  of  the  tumult  of  the  universe,  and  when 
*  Poor  Tom'  was  'a'cold,'  a  shiver  ran  through  Ainger's  frail 
form,  the  tempest  burst  suddenly  upon  us  on  the  heath,  and 
we  were  set  face  to  face  with  the  elements  and  with  elemental 
human  passions. 

There  were,  perhaps,  few  places  which  heard  as  much  Shake- 
speare from  him  as  did  Hampstead.  His  lectures  there  on  the 
great  plays,  to  which  his  many  pupils  owed  so  much  enlighten- 
ment, often  consisted  for  the  most  part  of  reading  interspersed 


192        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

with  comments.  These  comments  were  but  fragments  ;  they 
are  only  preserved  in  the  stray  note-books  of  those  who  heard 
them.  Yet  such  as  they  are,  they  give  some  rough  impression 
of  his  thought ;  and  it  seems  worth  while  to  subjoin  them 
here — a  natural  sequel,  however  inadequate,  to  any  memories 
of  his  reading. 

'  All  true  humour  is  based  on  breadth  of  observation  ;  this  is 
true  humour  because  true  life.' 

'  Shakespeare  cared  for  man  more  than  for  incident^  and  revealed 
all  the  varied,  unvarying  qualities  of  humanity  ...  In  Shake- 
speare the  plot  arises  from  the  characters  and  could  not  arise 
without  them.  .  .  .  No  matter  how  repellent  his  plots,  without 
intending  it,  and  even  without  being  conscious  of  it,  Shakespeare 
seems  to  sweeten  them  and  bring  us  more  into  love  with  human 
nature. 

'  Literature  demanded  a  perfectly  sane  genius  .  .  .  and  Shake- 
speare's genius  was  founded  on  moral  sanity  and  moral  sweetness. 
.  .  .  Even  his  first  attempt  showed  no  sign  of  imitation ;  and  his 
was  "  the  power  of  going  on  and  still  to  be."  The  stream,  though 
it  flows  through  well-ordered  banks,  yet  as  it  flows,  it  brims.  .  .  . 
His  was  the  prodigality  of  quality  rather  than  quantity.  In  his 
earlier  work  the  food  is  sometimes  too  rich,  and  we  cannot  see 
the  wood  for  the  trees.  ...  His  finest  mastery  is  the  mastery 
over  himself  As  the  incidents  arise,  his  language  calms  into 
simplicity  and  strength.  He  shows  us  suffering  and  all  the  glory 
of  charity  which  springs  up  like  flowers  about  its  feet.' 

'  We  know  Pope  and  Swift  by  their  writings.  Every  novelist, 
too,  now  and  then  i-elapses  on  himself,  but  it  is  not  so  with  the 
dramatist.  .  .  . 

'  It  has  been  thought  that  Jacques  represents  Shakespeare  at  a 
time  when  moral  sentiment  had  become  dimmer  through  contact 
with  the  world.  I  read  a  different  moral  and  think  that  it  was  a 
healthy  mood  in  which  Shakespeare  wrote  the  part.  Jacques  is 
not  Shakespeare ;  and  when  in  the  play  his  melancholy  is  laughed 
at,  Shakespeare  is  condemning  cynicism,  not  allowing  it.  The 
little  touch  of  conscience  made  Jacques  sweet,  .  .  . 

'  It  is  Shakespeare,  not  Pistol,  who  laughs  at  the  fashions  of  the 


LECTURER  AND  CRITIC  193 

day.     And  we,  who  have  watched  Shakespeare  laugh  at  them, 
know  him  the  bettei"  for  it.  .  .  .' 

'If  Love's  Labour's  Lost  shows  an  excess  of  words,  Coriolanus 
shows  an  excess  of  thought — depth  of  thought  also.  Its  very 
obscurity  comes  from  a  plethora  of  thought.' 

'  The  Winter's  Tale  stands  by  the  side  of  the  Tempest  in  sweet- 
ness and  in  greatness.  There  may  be,  and  is,  a  difference  in 
power  when  we  compare  it  with  the  earlier  plays,  but  most 
assuredly  there  is  no  falling  off.  .  .  .  The  tone  is  autumnal,  real 
to  feel  if  difficult  to  define.  .  .  .  The  Winter  s  Tale  and  the 
Tempest  rank  as  comedies,  but  they  are  so  solemn  that  it  seems 
profane  not  to  rank  them  apart.  In  them  we  find  still  another 
"  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil " — still  distilled,  but  sweeter 
than  before.     Their  effect  is  that  of  a  sunny  day  after  rain.' 

There  are  two  prominent  characteristics  in  these  and  all 
his  sayings  about  literature.  The  one  is  moderation,  a  quality 
doubtless  implied  by  the  word  '  taste,'  but  Ainger's  was  a  fine 
natural  moderation,  neither  courting,  nor  shrinking  from  the 
obvious,  which  reminds  us  of  the  prose  of  a  Cowper,  or  a  Gray, 
rather  than  of  any  newer  author. 

To  modern  exaggerations  he  was  an  inveterate  foe. 


"OJs' 


'Readers,'  he  says,  'of  the  literary  reviews  or  journals  of  to-day 
cannot  fail  to  be  struck  with  a  curious  lack  of  moderation,  '}r 
perhaps  proportion,  in  the  criticism  of  new  books,  especially 
works  of  imagination.  .  .  .  There  is  a  homely  proverb  which 
should  remind  us  that  the  standard  is  everything — the  proverb 
which  affirms  that  among  the  blind  the  one-eyed  man  is  king.  .  .  . 
It  is  the  reverse  of  the  precedent  set  up  by  Aesop's  shepherd 
boy.  He  cried  "  Wolf !  wolf !"  until  no  one  believed  him.  The 
critic  I  have  in  my  eye  calls  out  "  Lamb  !  Lamb  ! "  (or  whatever  is 
the  proper  antithesis  to  wolf)  until  he  is  met  with  a  similar  in- 
credulity. ...  If  the  lowest  praise  you  administer  is  "  superla- 
tive," what  praise  is  left  for  the  giants  of  the  art  ?  If  "  supreme  " 
and  "consummate"  and  "exquisite  "  and  the  like,  are  sprinkled 
over  the  dish  as  from  a  pepper-caster,  what  is  left  to  apply  to 
Shakespeare  and  Spenser,  Milton,  Gray,  Keats,  Shelley.'  ^ 

^  '  Poetae  Mediocres,'  Macmillatt' s  Magazine. 
N 


194        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

This  spiritual  temperance  of  Ainger's  often  led  him,  in 
contempt  of  facile  effectiveness,  into  some  formality  of  expres- 
sion, while  his  moral  fastidiousness  might  to  some  have  seemed 
almost  excessive.  And  this  brings  us  to  the  other  essential 
quality  of  his  judgment — his  power  of  moral  criticism,  more 
prominent  than  aesthetic  criticism  in  what  he  wrote  or  said. 
It  was  always  the  moral  side  of  art  and  life  that  first  attracted 
him,  and  it  was  the  profound  moral  outlook  which  drew  him 
most  powerfully  to  the  poet  who  for  him  summed  up  both 
life  and  art.  '  It  is  owing  to  that  surefooted  step  of  his  in 
things  moral,  that  he  never  slips,  even  on  that  most  dangerous 
ground  ;  that  he  leaves  us  in  the  end  satisfied ' — he  once  said 
in  a  lecture  on  Shakespeare.  Not  that  he  thought  art  a 
moral  matter,  but  be  believed  that  it  set  up  what  Tolstoi  calls 
'  a  moral  relation  between  itself  and  the  public,'  that  it 
embodied  a  view  of  human  existence  often  unconsciously  for- 
mulated, and  that,  however  impersonal,  of  its  very  nature  it 
must  reveal  personality.  He  did  not  neglect  beauty — none 
was  keener  than  he  to  see  and  value  it ;  but  he  regarded  moral 
health  as  essential  to  it — not  as  the  flower  itself,  but  as  the 
sun  and  light  which  fed  the  flower.  '  Without  profound 
ethical  beauty  there  can  be  no  permanent  or  enduring  popu- 
larity for  the  serious  drama.'  So  he  wrote ;  and  his  lectures, 
his  writing,  his  talk,  bore  witness  to  this  belief,  and  to  his 
consequent  dislike  of  any  theory  of  art  for  art's  sake. 

Such  a  strong  bias  was  bound  to  have  strong  drawbacks.  If 
it  made  his  strength,  it  also  made  his  limitations.  His  choice 
of  friends  in  literature,  as  of  those  in  real  life,  was  founded  upon 
personal  likes  or  dislikes,  which  he  did  not  seem  able  to  help 
in  the  one  case  any  more  than  in  the  other ;  and  yet  if  we  look 
more  closely  we  shall  find  these  feelings  grounded  upon  a 
moral  ground — we  had  almost  said  a  moral  prejudice — for  such 
his  literary  sympathies  and  antipathies  sometimes  became. 
'  The  hearty  manner  in  which  he '  (Patmore)  ' "  goes  for"  Percy 
Bysshe  also  struck  me  as  being,  even  if  wrong,  yet  wrong  in 
the  right  direction.  For  the  hideous  Shelley-worship  of  the 
present  day  is  one  of  the  worst  symptoms  of  wrong-headedness 
and  wrong  heartedness.'  Thus  he  writes  to  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell, 


LECTURER  AND  CRITIC  195 

and  he  seems  to  forget — deliberately — that  Shelley  worship  is 
oftener  founded  on  a  love  of  beauty  than  on  ethical  instinct. 
Still  more  strongly  does  the  same  kind  of  injustice,  and  almost 
a  dogmatist's  injustice,  appear  in  a  letter  that  he  wrote  to 
Miss  Flora  Stevenson,  after  a  lecture  he  had  given  in  Edin- 
burgh on  George  Eliot.  His  correspondent — who  lived  there 
— had  been  present,  and  wrote  making  some  objection. 

*  Mv  DEAR  Friend  '  (he  replied), — '  Thanks  for  your  note,  and  for 
your  kind  words  about  my  lecture.  Do  you  know,  I  am  quite 
grateful  that  yours  is  the  only  demur  that  has  yet  reached  me,  on 
the  subject  of  my  estimate  of  George  Eliot,  for  I  positively  feared 
that  the  whole  audience  would  rise  to  hoot  me,  when  I  said  what 
1  did — so  much  is  George  Eliot  the  idol  of  the  cultured  classes 
in  this  city.  I  think  I  did  not  once  apply  the  epithet  "cynical" 
to  her.  I  would  not  have  done  so,  because  she  was  too  wise  a 
woman  to  be  cynical ;  but  I  do  think  that  her  way  of  regarding 
mankind  generally — de  haul  en  bas — is  at  the  root  of  her  failure  as 
a  humorist — and  I  wish  you  would  re-read  (say  the  Scenes  of 
Clerical  Life)  by  the  light  of  this  criticism,  and  tell  me  whether 
you  do  not  better  understand  what  I  mean.  She  patronises 
everything  in  the  world — even  Christianity.  The  very  fact  that, 
holding  the  opinions  we  know  her  to  have  entertained  towards 
Christian  theology,  she  should  have  dealt  with  Christianity  as  she 
does  in  Janet's  Repentance  and  Adam  Bede,  is  the  most  perfect 
instance  of  this  patronising.  That  she  should  make  moral  and 
pathetic  capital  out  of  an  Institution  she  held  to  be  based 
upon  the  idlest  of  fables,  is  to  me,  and  always  was,  a  revolting 
incident. 

'  One  or  two  people  after  the  lecture,  in  the  tea-room,  thanked 
me  for  "what  I  had  said  about  George  Eliot,"  so  I  had  one  or 
two  sympathisers.  .  .  .' 

He  appears  to  forget,  almost  wilfully,  that  George  Eliot 
wrote  as  an  artist,  not  as  a  preacher,  and  the  shrewdness  of 
his  first  remarks  about  her  attitude  to  humanity  stands  out 
in  enigmatic  contrast  with  the  set  prejudice  of  the  last. 

Whatever  the  effect  of  Ainger's  dislikes,  his  likes  nearly 
always  made  delicate  and  reliable  criticism.  But  occasionally, 
even  here,  his  moral  sense  got  in  the  way  of  his  literary 
acumen  and  drew  from  him  surprising  statements.     No  one 


196         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

has  perhaps  written  in  a  strain  more  charming  or  more  just  of 
Tennyson,  yet  when  he  compared  him  with  great  poets,  whom 
he  liked  less,  or  tried  to  prove  to  himself  certain  facts  which 
he  wished  to  believe,  his  praise  was  by  no  means  infallible. 

'Tennyson's  diction'  (so  he  writes  after  the  poet's  death) 
*  haunts  us,  and  gladdens  and  purifies  while  it  haunts.  And  this 
it  is  which  makes  him,  with  whatever  other  immense  differences,  so 
Shakespearian.  His  verse  is  so  human,  while  also  so  bewitching 
and  so  haunting.  As  an  artist  in  verbal  expression  he  ranks  with 
Shelley  and  Keats.  Yet  while  for  all  the  best  verse  of  those 
poets  our  admiration  never  wanes,  that  admiration  rarely  warms 
into  affection,  and  its  appeal  is  therefore  to  the  lesser  number. 
It  bewitches,  but  only  now  and  again  it  moves.     Keats's  Autumn — 

"  Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfuluess  " — 

is  as  Tennysonian  perhaps  as  anything  that  a  poet  of  marked 
individuality  ever  pi'oduced,  and  it  moves  us  within  its  limits,  but 
not  within  Tennyson's.' 

.  .  .  'Sufficient  now  to  note,'  he  continues  later,  'that  while  he 
shared  the  divine  Shakespearian  sympathy  with  all  classes,  from 
highest  to  lowest,  and  "felt  with  king  and  peasant  alike,"  he  yet 
(like  Shakespeare)  recognised  no  virtue  either  in  "  classes  "  or 
"  masses,"  save  as  they  were  made  wise  through  justice,  reverence, 
and  self-denial.  That  Shakespeare's  own  attitude  towards  the 
"  mob  "  was  somewhat  scornful,  that  there  was  a  strong  vein  of 
the  so-called  aristocrat  in  that  Warwickshire  farmer's  son,  has 
often  been  inferred,  and  perhaps  justly,  so  far  as  one  may  pene- 
trate his  dramatic  disguise  and  read  the  real  man.  It  was  not  in 
this,  if  it  existed,  that  Tennyson  followed  him  ;  but  rather  in  the 
quality  just  before  mentioned,  of  insight  into  the  true  source  of 
national  greatness,  freedom  based  upon  moral  discipline.' 

Do  Tennyson"'s  greatest  lovers  say  that  he  was  more  of  a 
democrat  than  Shakespeare,  as  here  represented  ?  As  to 
Keats,  Tennyson  himself  once  said,  '  If  he  had  lived,  he  would 
have  been  the  greatest  of  all."* 

Yet  no  one,  when  not  comparing  one  man  with  another, 
could  write  better  and  more  justly  about  poets  and  poetry, 
or  treat  them  with  more  steadfast  enthusiasm.  And  his  sug- 
gestions as  to  what  makes  enduring  art,  a  theme  on  which  he 


LECTURER  AND  CRITIC  197 

liked   to  dwell,   make  no  unfitting   conclusion  to    his    pro- 
nouncements upon  Tennyson. 

'  In  poetry,'  he  says,  '  Horace  has  told  us — and  the  cultivated 
sense  of  mankind  has  ratified  his  words — mediocrity  is  not  admis- 
sible .  .  .  for  who  shall  estimate  the  enormous  influence  of  its 
great  poets  in  the  education  of  a  people,  both  as  their  teachers 
and  as  the  imparters  of  intense  and  lofty  and  enduring  delight  ? 
And  if  so,  it  must  surely  be  of  primary  importance,  in  the  interest 
of  that  education,  that  we  keep  our  sense  pure  and  unsophisticated, 
as  to  what  is  poetry  and  what  is  not.  .  .  .  The  artificer  who  can 
make  a  jam-pot  admirably,  and  a  Grecian  urn  but  poorly,  will 
live,  if  he  live  at  all,  by  the  excellence  of  his  jam-pots,  and  not  by 
his  urns.  Poets  must  survive  by  their  successes,  not  by  their 
failures.  It  is  excellence  in  its  own  kind  that  is  a  joy  for  ever, 
even  when  that  kind  is  short  of  the  highest.  This,  it  would 
seem,  is  one  of  the  fallacies  that  possess  those  who  complain  that 
contemporary  verse  is  not  appreciated.  They  plead  with  truth 
of  some  new  volume  of  verse  that  it  is  noble  in  aim,  earnest  in 
spirit,  and  in  metrical  skill  and  a  certain  verbal  ingenuity  often 
admirable.  Yet  the  volume  in  question  is  read  once,  in  response 
to  some  enthusiastic  review,  but  it  somehow  fails  to  delight ;  it  is 
not  quoted,  or  remembered,  or  re-read  ;  treasured  in  that  limited 
book-shelf  that  hangs,  like  that  of  Chaucer's  scholar,  at  one's 
"bed-head."  .  .  .  Hoav  is  this,  indeed.^  What  constitutes  the 
vitality  of  verse  .''  What  is  the  essential  reason  why  some  verse 
lives  and  some  dies  .''  It  is  an  answer,  but  no  explanation,  to 
reply  that  genius  is  iuscrutable,  intaugible,  coming  like  the  wind 
we  know  not  whence,  and  having  issues  we  know  not  whither. 
.  .  .  There  may  be  tests  for  a  thing,  though  the  thing  itself 
evades  analysis.  ...  It  was  not  of  poetry  that  Hamlet  was 
thinking  when  he  said  in  his  nervous  irritability  that  there  is 
"  nothing  either  good  or  bad  but  thinking  makes  it  so."  We 
have  the  great  poets  in  our  hands,  or  around  us ;  and  in  seeking 
to  know  why  they  have  taken  a  rank  denied  others,  I  think  our 
chief  test  is  the  very  fact  of  their  survival — that  is,  that  time  has 
not  withered  them,  nor  custom  staled  them.  Whatever  the 
quality  that  has  made  them  live  is  independent  of  time.  Spenser 
is  as  delightful  to  us  as  to  his  contemporaries.  Pope,  though 
dealing  habitually  with  people,  incidents,  quarrels,  gossip  of  his 
generation,  has  lost  for  us  no  jot  of  his  fascination.  We  cannot, 
of  course,  offer  this  precise  quality  as  a  test  for  the  poetry  of  our 


198        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

own  day.  We  shall  all  be  in  our  graves  before  a  like  probationary 
period  is  over.  But  there  is  a  kindred  test  which  may  be  applied 
by  most  of  us  during  our  lifetime.  I  used  just  now  Keats's  famous 
expression  about  a  thing  of  beauty  being  a  joy  for  ever.  The 
line  has  been  so  vulgarised  that  we  forget  that  it  contains  a  very 
subtle  criticism.  "  For  ever  "  of  course  includes  the  lapse  of  ages 
in  the  world's  history,  but  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should  not 
include  lapse  of  time  in  the  individual's.  If  a  thing  is  really 
good,  really  beautiful,  it  will  travel  with  us  through  life,  a  "  life's 
star,"  that  never  wanes  or  dwindles ;  or  it  will  seem  to  grow  to 
us  more  good,  more  beautiful,  as  we  ourselves  grow  in  real 
culture.' 

And  again  let  us  hear  him  upon  the  critic  of  poetry  and  his 
functions. 

'  It  is  not  grotesque  mediocrity  which  seems  likely  nowadays 
to  deceive  the  elect,  or  even  the  non-elect.  If  there  is  a  counter- 
feit poetry  now  in  circulation,  it  is  of  a  wholly  different  mintage. 
Any  one  can  detect  and  nail  to  the  counter  such  spurious  money 
as  Macaulay  denounced.  The  later  coinages  are  far  better  imita- 
tions of  the  genuine  thing.  Many,  indeed,  are  on  the  surface  of 
them  very  like  the  real  thing ;  the  face  is  as  bright,  sometimes 
brighter,  than  18-carat  gold  ;  the  cutting  of  the  die  seems  perfect, 
the  impression  skilfully  taken,  the  milling  unexceptionable.  It 
is  only  when  weighed  in  the  hand  by  some  one  familiar  with  the 
genuine  coin  that  its  weight  is  felt  to  be  deficient ;  only  when 
struck  against  some  strong,  hard  surface  that  its  ring  is  perceived 
to  be  false. 

'.  .  .  One  would  have  supposed  that  at  such  a  period — 
when,  to  adapt  the  proverb  of  the  wood  and  the  trees,  one  can 
hardly  see  literature  for  the  books— the  critical  standard  would 
rise ;  that  the  critic  would  show  himself  more,  not  less,  exacting, 
and  would  be  more  careful,  in  the  interest  of  the  reader,  to 
emphasise  the  distinction  between  the  excellent  and  the  mediocre. 
Yet  no  one  can  read  much  of  the  current  periodical  criticism 
without  noting  that  it  is  rather  the  opposite  that  is  happening. 
While  it  is  an  obvious  and  undeniable  fact  that  the  manufacture 
of  books,  as  distinguished  from  authorship,  exists  on  an  enormous 
scale,  yet  apparently  the  average  critic  becomes  more  easy  to 
please,  not  less,  than  of  old  ;  as  if  he  cried  in  sheer  despair  to  the 
makers  of  books,  "  Well,  if  you  can't  rise  to  my  standard,  I  must 
come  down  to  yours  "  ;  and  hardly  six  months  pass  without  some 


LECTURER  AND  CRITIC  199 

prose  romance  appearing,  by  some  fresh  writer,  and  being 
received  with  such  a  chorus  of  welcome  and  such  hecatombs  of 
praise,  as  would  require  some  modification  if  applied  to  the 
masterpieces  of  Walter  Scott — to  Old  Mortality  or  The  Heart  of 
Midlothian.  Now,  as  I  have  said,  no  one  wishes  for  a  return  of 
the  criticism  called  slashing,  but  what  I  do  think  the  intelligent 
reader  often  sighs  for,  is  some  criticism  that  may  be  called  dis- 
criminating ;  and  if  the  value  of  such  in  literature  of  whatever 
kind  is  great,  it  is  surely  greatest  where  the  literature  in  question 
is  poetry.' 

He  had  scant  belief  in  latter-day  singers  and  was  not 
inclined  to  treat  them  over  hospitably.  And  this  was  not 
one  of  his  personal  prejudices,  but  part  of  his  poetic  creed 
— a  part  which  no  one  has  accounted  for  better  than  he 
himself. 

'  Is  the  thing  said  by  the  new  poet  in  itself  worth  saying '  (he 
asks)  .''  '  Of  much  of  the  verse  of  the  present  day,  this  is  a  safe 
test.  Much  of  it  is  written,  apparently,  for  the  sake  of  exhibit- 
ing a  technical  skill  in  wordbuilding,  or  the  invention  of  new  and 
curious  metres.  Here  the  form  is  everything,  and  the  substance 
nothing.  ...  A  minor  poet  is  not  necessarily  mediocre ;  and 
there  is  ample  room  for  the  former,  and  ample  reason  for  us  to 
value  and  be  thankful  for  him.  I  am  aware  that  a  flavour  of 
mediocrity  has  come  to  be  associated  with  the  word  "minor." 
There  is  a  story  of  a  lady  of  fashion,  who  collected  notabilities  at 
her  parties,  introducing  a  bard  of  this  description  to  a  distin- 
guished foreigner  in  these  terms :  "  Herr  Muller,"  she  said, 
"  allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  Mr.  Shelley  Smith,  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  of  our  minor  poets."  The  story  adds  that  Mr. 
Shelley  Smith  was  not  pleased.  .  .  .  The  best  of  the '' minor  " 
verse  and  the  best  of  the  ''major"  dwell  side  by  side,  differing 
from  each  other  doubtless  in  glory,  but  stars  for  ever,  and  joys  for 
ever,  in  the  firmament  of  beauty  with  which  God  has  encircled 
His  world.  .  .  .  Such  a  practice  (superlative  praise)  tends  to  con- 
fuse and  spoil  that  moral  sense,  which,  as  well  as  an  intellectual 
one,  enters  (I  firmly  believe)  into  our  appreciation  of  the  highest. 
When  a  new  poet  is  hailed,  within  a  week  of  his  first  appearance, 
as  a  new  Shelley,  should  the  epithet  prove  absurd,  you  may  ask, 
"  Well,  what  harm  is  done,  beyond  fluttering  needlessly  the 
aesthetic  pulse  of  the  reader,  and  causing  the  expenditure  of  a 


200        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

few  premature  half-crowns  ?  "  Well  the  harm  is  that  treason  is 
done — not  of  course  against  the  Dii  Majores  of  verse,  who  sit 
apart,  beside  their  nectar,  careless  of  the  critics — but  treason 
against  the  poetic  instinct  and  conscience  of  the  general  reader, 
who  is  tempted  to  rub  his  eyes  and  exclaim,  "  Is  this  first-rate 
poetry  ?  Have  1  been  deceived  all  my  days  in  regarding  the 
really  great  poets,  on  whom  time  has  set  his  seal,  as  on  a  wholly 
different  plane  from  these ;  as  really  gi'eat,  enduring,  vital,  part 
and  parcel  of  my  life's  experience — entering  into  the  very  faith, 
hope,  love,  strength,  and  joy  of  my  intellectual  and  spiritual 
being  ? ' 

Enough  has  been  said  and  quoted  to  show  Alfred  Ainger's 
views  about  art  and  literature,  his  attitude  towards  them, 
from  the  moral  and  aesthetic  standpoints.  We  have  said 
all  when  we  say  that  he  was  an  interpreter,  not  an  originator, 
that  although  he  had  so  much  of  the  artistic  temperament, 
he  was  not  completely  an  artist.  His  moral  sense  interfered, 
and  it  too  frequently  induced  him  to  confound  ethics  witii 
art.  But  the  moral  sense  has  its  place  in  criticism — a  very 
important  one — and  wherever  such  a  force  is  needed,  there 
Ainger's  judgment  was  perfect :  simple,  sober,  yet  fervent. 

The  same  strength  and  the  same  weakness  characterise  his 
conception  of  life,  and  perhaps  this  is  nowhere  better  exempli- 
fied than  in  his  correspondence  with  Mr.  Shorthouse  about 
the  Little  Schoolmaster  Mark,  a  book  which  excited  Canon 
Ainger  in  a  way  that  was  by  no  means  usual  with  him. 
Where  he  handles  religion  and  its  influence  in  the  world,  he 
always  speaks  words  of  wisdom  ;  but  where  he  handles  art  and 
its  whole  relation  to  religious  faith,  the  moralist  grows  too 
strong  for  the  artist.  The  correspondence  began  in  1883, 
soon  after  the  little  book  was  published. 

'  Hampstead,  November  28rd,  1883. 

'Dear  Mr.  Shorthouse, — I  have  wished  ever  since  I  read 
your  beautiful  story  of  the  Little  Schoolmaster  Mark,  to  write  and 
thank  you  for  it.  I  am  afraid  you  are  too  well  used  to  this  kind 
of  unsolicited  tribute,  but  I  hope  you  will  forgive  my  impertin- 
ence. Of  course,  like  the  rest  of  your  x'caders,  I  have  been 
interpreting  the   allegory  (if  allegory  it  is)  in  my  own  way  and 


LECTURER  AND  CRITIC  201 

according  to  my  own  dim  guesses.  But  the  reason  perhaps  why 
I  have  been  specially  interested  in  it  from  the  clerical  point  of 
view,  is  that  it  seemed  to  me  to  support  and  justify  a  very 
favourite  lesson  of  mine,  which  I  have  very  often  tried  to  instil 
from  the  Temple  pulpit,  that  "  if  we  try  to  treat  religion  as  if  it 
was  one  of  the  Fine  Arts,  we  shall  inevitably  kill  it  in  the 
process."  I  have  used  this  very  phrase  more  than  once  in  the 
last  few  years,  and  when  I  came  to  the  tragic  end  of  your  stoiy 
and  found  the  little  schoolmaster  (who  can  be  no  other  than 
Religion  or  the  Spirit  of  Holiness)  dying  under  the  world's  too 
ingenious  hands,  I  seemed  to  read  in  it  a  confirmation  of  my  own 
teaching  at  various  times. 

'  I  wonder  if  I  am  anywhere  near  the  truth.  Possibly — and 
most  likely — you  had  some  other  purpose  in  mind,  of  a  very 
different  scope.  But  I  did  take  the  great  liberty  of  referring  to 
your  story  in  my  last  Sunday's  sermon — and  in  these  terms : — 

' "  When  the  Little  Schoolmaster  Mark  is  forced  to  take  up  his 
abode  in  the  clever  and  polished  and  wicked  world — the  world 
liked  him  for  his  purity  and  unworldliness,  for  the  world  cannot 
choose  but  admire  and  revere.  It  sees  what  benefit  religion 
brings,  but  it  will  not  surrender  itself  to  it — it  will  not  gaze  and 
gaze,  and  adore,  till  it  assimilates  itself  to  the  Divine  Ideal.  It 
must  needs  have  Religion  for  its  playfelloAv,  and  its  plaything,  a 
new  instrument  for  its  inventiveness  and  resource. 

'  "  Religion  must  take  its  share  in  the  world's  Saturnalia.  But 
in  the  midst  of  it,  the  young  child  droops  and  falls — and  there  is 
a  cry  of  Look  !  Look  I  the  child  is  dying  !  And  at  once  the  play 
is  stopped.     And  so  the  story  ends." 

'  Most  true  vision  of  the  end  of  all  such  endeavours  ! 

'  Religion  must  be  above  us,  and  greater  than  us,  if  it  is  to  lift 
us  higher.  If  we  put  it  on  our  own  level  or  patronise  it — or  play 
with  it — it  will  die.  And  when  it  dies,  corruption  spreads. 
Society  may  linger  yet  for  a  while  in  the  after-glow  of  its  memory, 
but  the  end  will  not  be  far  off. 

*  This  may  be — and  probably  is — quite  beside  the  mark  (no  pun 
intended),  but  I  hope  that,  if  I  have  interpolated  a  moral,  it  is  not 
one  that  you  would  wholly  disagree  with. 

*  I  am  very  anxious  to  leai'n  all  the  lessons  of  your  wonderful 
story.  Mrs.  Macmillan  has  put  me  on  the  track  of  some  records 
of  Italian  Comedy,  which  she  tells  me  are  illustrative  of  the  latter 
part  of  your  fable. 

'  Pray   forgive   me   this   intrusion.     But  in  truth,  I  have    not 


202        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGEK 

been  for  very  long  so  charmed  as  by  this  romance  of  yours,  and  I 
cannot  hold  my  peace  about  it,  without  pain  and  grief. — Yours 
faithfully  and  gratefully,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  Lansdowne, 
•  Edgbaston,  Nov.  25,  1883. 

'  Dear  Mr.  Ainger, — I  am  very  grateful  for  your  letter  and 
for  the  expression  of  the  interest  you  take  in  Little  Mark.  If 
success  be  ever  attained  by  the  writer  of  what  we  call  fiction,  it 
must  be  when  men  of  culture  perceive  in  his  stories  lessons  and 
glimpses  of  truth  such  as  they  have  discovered  in  life  itself!  For 
more  than  this  who  could  wish  to  hope  .'' 

'  With  your  interpretation  I  should  be  the  last  to  quarrel.  In 
fact,  if  words  mean  anything,  it  is  what  occurred.  But  is  it  all 
the  truth  .^  Can  one  instance,  however  typical,  exhaust  the  whole 
of  truth  }  May  not  something  be  said  for  the  Prince's  view  of 
life  .''  May  not  religion  be  conceived  as  a  fine  art — (life  surely  is, 
or  would  be, where  circumstances  allowed);  where  then  can  the  line 
be  drawn  .^ — for  we  shall  not  dispute  that  religion  is  a  part  of 
life.  Have  religionists  been  so  successful  as  to  preclude  all  idea 
that  there  has  been  a  mistake  somewhere .''  Has  not  Fanaticism 
used  your  words,  again  and  again,  with  baleful  effect :  "  gaze  and 
gaze,  and  adore,"  and  are  there  not  words  somewhere  about  "the 
wisdom  of  the  serpent "  as  well  as  about  "  the  harmlessness  of  the 
dove  "  .''  May  it  not  be  a  mission — as  it  is  to  show  what  life  may 
he — to  show  what  religion  might  be .'' — not  as  an  outcast  or  alien 
from  life's  feast,  but  as  the  honoured  and  presiding  guest.  Is  it 
because  of  such  failures  as  the  Prince's  experiment  that  the 
problem  is  still  unsolved  .'' 

I  am  glad  to  think  of  any  work  of  real  art,  that  opposite 
lessons  may  be  read  vilo  it,  though  not  perhapsy/'om  it:  if  it  be  a 
true  glimpse  of  life  it  must  bear  different  interpretations  as  life 
does.  I  should  not  be  shocked  to  find  the  tale  claimed  as  pessi- 
mistic— pessimism  must  be  faced.  I  should  be  very  glad  if  my 
little  tale  might  serve  as  a  peg  for  such  discussion  as  would  bring 
out  more  of  your  thoughts.  Shall  we  ever  have  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  them  here  .'' — With  kindest  regards  from  my  wife,  I  am, 
yours  very  sincerely,  J.  Henry  Shorthouse.' 

*  Lansdowne, 
'  Edgbaston,  December  3,  1883. 

'  My  dear  Mr.  Ainger, — I  have  ventured  to  send  you  a  copy 
of  the  Little  Schoolmaster  Mark,  which  I  hope  you  will  accept 


LECTURER  AND  CRITIC  203 

in  token  of  the  pleasure  we  have  always  felt  in  the  recollection 
of  our  introduction  to  you  and  of  thanks  for  your  last  letter. 
I  assure  you  that  this  letter  has  been  the  cause  of  much  interest- 
ing discussion  here^  and  has  enabled  me  to  see  much  clearer  the 
meaning  of  my  own  tale.  When  I  wrote  it  I  had  before  my  mind 
chiefly  the  study  of  contrast  between  the  spiritual  life  and  the 
worldly  life,  in  its  most  attractive  form. 

'  It  isj  however,  the  distinguishing  advantage  of  fiction  that  the 
meaning  is  not  limited  to  what  was  in  the  writer's  mind  at  the 
time.  I  should  7ioiv  say  that  the  story  is  the  relation  of  one  of 
many  failures  to  reconcile  the  artistic  with  the  spiritual  aspect  of  life. 
This,  I  think,  will  not  interfere  with  your  interpretation,  but  will 
at  the  same  time  allow  for  extension  of  meaning. 

'The  Prince  was  not  equal  to  the  task,  but  who  is.''  He  had 
not  only  to  keep  his  "Saturnalia"  in  order,  but  he  was  exposed 
to  an  unexpected  difficulty — the  effect  of  the  Princess  Isoline  and 
disappointment  (in  her  religious  life)  upon  Mark.  This  he  pro- 
bably never  dreamt  of,  yet  was  it  not  this  that  really  killed  Mark  ? 

'  I  am  very  glad  I  stopped  when  I  did.  I  heard  a  voice  behind 
me  saying,  "You  have  written  enough,  stop  there."  Yours  very 
sincerely, 

'J.  Henry  Shorthouse.' 

'Lansdowne, 
'  EdgbastoxV,  April  27,  1884. 

*  My  dear  Mr.  Ainger, —  ...  I  return  the  "  interpretation  " 
with  many  thanks.  I  am  very  pleased  with  the  idea  of  false  and 
true  art ;  this  will  be  helpful.  The  whole  paper  is  very  like  one 
which  dear  Mrs.  Russell  Gurney  sent  us  as  soon  as  the  tale 
appeared.  I  would  copy  it,  but  it  is  so  like  the  one  you  have 
that  it  is  hardly  worth  while.  She  says,  "once  I  thought  the 
whole  was  a  scene  in  ManSoul,  as  Bunyan  would  call  it,  that  Mark 
was  the  conscience  or  divinely-born  spirit  —  the  Prince  the 
reasoning  faculty — the  Princess  the  earthborn  Psyche  allied  to 
the  outward,  while  the  Signorina  was  the  art-winged  one,  the 
counterpart  of  dear,  subtle,  humorous  old  Arlecchino.  The 
ethereal  clown,  questioning  with  Mark  concerning  art-life  "  so 
wondrously,"  was  he  the  human,  sensuous  perception  }  But  no ; 
the  simple  dignity  and  unity  of  the  poem  seems  to  fritter  on 
(aw)  such  attempt  to  label.".   .  .  . 

*  I  am.  Yours,  etc.,  etc., 

'J.  Henry  Shorthouse.' 


204        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  October  1884. 

'Dear  Mr.  Shorthouse, — I  want  to  tell  you  with  as  little 
delay  as  possible,  with  what  delight  and  gratitude  I  have  read 
the  second  part  oi  Little  Mark :  you  had  prepared  me,  in  a  measure, 
for  the  line  you  were  going  to  take,  but  I  had  little  notion  of 
the  power  and  pathos  that  was  in  store  for  us.  As  you  know,  I 
have  been  for  years  trying  to  enforce  kindred  truths  from  the 
pulpit,  and  I  can  only  wish  that  we  could  always  be  seconded 
so  nobly  and  effectually  by  so-called  "  secular "  writers  and 
teachers.  Oh,  how  my  heart  went  with  you  when  you  denounced 
the  foolish  and  pernicious  practice  of  distinguishing  between 
things  "  secular  "  and  things  "  sacred  "  ! 

'  What  struck  me  as  much  as  anything  was  the  use  made  of  the 
Signorina's  devotion  to  the  old  Maestro,  as  shewing  how  art  might 
minister  to  devotion  and  self-sacrifice,  and  so  become  indeed  a 
hand-maid  to  religion.  Was  this  use  of  the  situation  at  all  con- 
templated in  the  ^first  part  of  the  story — or  was  it  a  brilliant 
after-thought }  I  will  not  write  more  now,  for  (please  God)  we 
shall  meet  early  in  November  and  shall  have  much  pleasant  talk. 
I  am  coming  to  the  end  of  my  vacation,  and  am  here  staying 
a  few  days  with  a  very  dear  and  valued  clergyman  friend, 
Mr.  Bather.  With  kindest  remembrances  to  Mrs.  Shorthouse, 
yours  always,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

*  When  I  came  to  the  end  of  your  story,  my  first  thought  was, 
"  what  a  fine  drama  it  would  make."  But  I  soon  withdrew  the 
remark — for  that  would  be  to  make  righteousness  end  only  in  art. 
Far  better  that  we  should  read  and  ponder  and  grow  by  the 
process  nearer  to  "the  children — and  the  Christ."' 

*  Lansdowne, 
'  Edgbaston,  October  2,  1884. 

'Dear  Mr.  Ainger, — Very  many  thanks  for  your  most  kind 
letter.  We  are  delighted  that  you  think  the  second  Part  successful. 
It  was  somewhat  of  a  risk,  but  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  the  course 
I  took.  I  never  could  have  written  the  second  part  but  for  the 
conversations  and  suggestions  which  resulted  from  the  first ;  and 
the  fact  that  a  story  has  grown  gradually  in  the  author's  mind  is, 
I  think,  of  immense  advantage  every  way. 

'  I  think  when  the  two  parts  are  published  together  the  tale 
will  be  seen  to  develop  itself  naturally.  I  hope  you  will  allow  me 
to  send  you  one  of  the  first  copies. 


LECTURER  AND  CRITIC  205 

'  We  need  not  say  how  much  we  are  looking  forward  to  your 

visit.  .  .  .  Yours  very  sincerely, 

'  J.  Henry  Shorthouse. 

'  PS. — The  action  and  re-action  of  feeling  on  musical  tone  has 
long  been  a  subject  of  interest  to  me.  I  am  certain  that  some 
time  a  Great  Musical  Tale  will  be  written  by  some  one  and  will  be 
a  revelation  to  all  of  us.' 

It  is  strange  that  throughout  these  letters  Ainger  seems  to 
believe  that  he  is  in  perfect  agreement  with  Shorthouse. 
Both  are,  in  truth,  making  for  the  same  goal — the  spiritual- 
ising of  life ;  but  they  reach  it,  as  it  were,  by  inverted  methods, 
for  Shorthouse  wants  to  turn  religion  into  an  art,  while  Ainger 
desires  to  turn  all  art  into  religion.  Shorthouse  was  a  mystic 
and  a  Platonist ;  Ainger  was  a  sober  English  Protestant.  Yet 
their  minds  suited  well  in  intercourse — they  liked  to  discuss 
the  same  themes ;  and  their  converse,  whether  held  in  London 
or  at  Edgbaston,  where  Ainger  paid  more  than  one  visit,  left 
stimulating  memories  behind  it. 


CHAPTER    XII 

ainger's  humour 

To  Ainger's  strong  moral  sense,  his  humour  acted  as  a  counter- 
poise. Or,  rather,  we  should  say  that  the  one  was  part  of  the 
other.  It  is  dangerous  to  generalise,  yet  it  might  almost  be 
laid  down  that  true  humour,  unlike  wit,  belongs  to  character — 
that  it  is  a  moral  quality — or,  at  least,  if  it  is  to  endure,  that 
it  must  contain  the  moral  element. 

Alfred  Ainger's  humour  was  of  the  school  of  Charles  Dickens 
— broad,  warm,  high-spirited.  He  himself  has  acknowledged 
his  master  and  given  us  his  own  definitions  both  of  wit  and 
humour : 

'  Not,  perhaps,  till  the  next  great  master  of  humour  shall  have 
arisen,  ard  in  his  turn  fixed  the  humorous  fonn  for  the  generation 
or  two  that  succeed  him,  will  Dickens's  countrymen  be  able  to 
form  a  proximate  idea  of  the  rank  he  is  finally  to  take  in  the  roll 
of  English  Authors. 

«.  .  .  Wit,  according  to  the  definition  commonly  accepted,  lies 
in  the  discovery  of  relations  between  words  or  ideas  before  unsus- 
pected or  unimagined  ;  its  pleasure  lies  in  surprises  .  .  .  but  the 
genius  of  at  least  one  eminent  contemporary  of  Dickens  shows 
how  any  definition  of  the  kind  is  subject  to  continuous  modifica- 
tion. Thomas  Hood  was  a  great  wit — in  his  own  line  without  a 
rival — but  his  best  wit  merges  into  humour,  transfused  by  his 
great  gift  of  human  kindness.  Thackeray  was  feeling  his  way  to 
a  truer  account  of  the  matter  when  he  said,  "  Shall  we  not  call 
humour  the  union  of  love  and  wit?''  In  this  combination  of  a 
swift  and  vivid  intellectual  apprehension,  with  the  controlling 
sense  of  a  human  relationship  with  all  the  diverse  creations  of  his 
fancy,  consists  the  power  of  Charles  Dickens.  And  in  this  regard, 
as  a  humorist,  he  takes  higher  rank  than  Thackeray.  The  latter 
does  not  stand  on  the  same  level  as  his  characters;  he  looks 
down  on  them  kindly,  no  doubt,  and  pityingly,  but  still  from  a 
higher  elevation.     The  allegory  which  he  suggested  in  the  preface 

206 


AINGER'S  HUMOUR  207 

to  Vanity  Fair  was  more  candid  than  perhaps  the  writer  knew. 
He  looked  on  the  men  and  women  whose  thoughts  and  actions 
developed  under  his  hand,  as  puppets,  and  he  thereby  missed  the 
sense,  ever  present  with  his  brother-novelist,  of  a  real  human 
equality  with  them.  He  was  capable  of  love  for  them,  but  it  was 
the  love  of  compassion  rather  than  that  of  sympathy.  .  .  .  We 
have  little  doubt  that,  to  use  the  words  with  which  Lord  Macaulay 
concluded  his  review  of  Byron,  "  after  the  closest  scrutiny,  there 
will  still  remain  much  that  can  only  perish  with  the  English 
language."' 

Ainger's  wit  was  no  mere  embroidery :  it  filled  a  definite 
role  in  his  life.  Spontaneous  and  mercurial  though  it  was,  he 
had  a  clear  conception  of  what  he  meant  to  do  with  it.  He 
hardly  ever  discussed  general  subjects,  even  when  they  were 
literary  ones,  and  he  usually  avoided  the  topics  of  the  day,  or 
any  threshing  out  of  ideas.  His  talk  consisted  mainly  of 
allusion,  of  anecdote,  of  quotation,  elements  that  cannot  exist, 
except  in  an  atmosphere  of  humour;  and  his  genius  lay  in 
their  application,  more  than  in  original  flights.  '  His  talk 
was  rich  and  full '  (to  quote  a  Bristol  friend), '  his'  silences  full 
of  inspiration.  He  knew  exactly  how  to  fill  a  pause  with  some 
dry  comment,  irresistibly  piquant  and  droll.'  By  no  means 
a  gossip,  yet  he  was  very  personal — and  circumspect  in  his 
inquiries  about  people.  These  he  made  with  a  good  deal  of 
human  interest,  in  which  his  natural  precision  played  no  small 
part.  He  was  always  put  out  by  vagueness,  whether  of 
speech  or  impression,  and  it  may  have  been  this  neat-minded- 
ness  which  helped  him  to  his  taste  for  verbal  quips.  In  this 
he  was  lucidly  masculine,  but  he  almost  had  a  woman's  need 
of  pleasing  and,  when  at  his  best,  a  feminine  power  of  making 
the  person  he  was  talking  to  feel  that  he  or  she  was  the  one 
being  with  whom  he  desired  conversation.  '  He  who  knew  so 
well  how  to  talk,'  continues  the  same  friend, '  was  one  of  those 
brilliant  listeners,  who,  by  a  certain  sympathy,  shown  in  every 
look  and  attitude,  make  men  give  fully  of  their  best,  or  even 
surprise  them  into  a  better  best  than  they  had  known  them- 
selves capable  of  until  confronted  by  such  eyes  and  such 
expectancy.' 


208         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

One  distinction  was  pre-eminently  his.  There  are  but  few 
men  of  whom  it  can  be  said,  as  of  him,  that  they  are  both 
good  and  witty — and  in  this  he  can  be  compared  to  his  beloved 
Charles  Lamb.  He  was  fully  aware  of  the  danger  his  gifts 
brought  with  them.  '  Wit,'  he  wrote,  '  has  a  power  of  its  own, 
as  effective  for  the  moment  as  argument.  ...  It  is  com- 
paratively easy  to  make  a  person  or  a  cause  ridiculous,  when  a 
solid  refutation  of  them  would  not  be  possible.'  And  he  laid 
his  own  warning  to  heart,  for  among  the  many  sayings  of 
Canon  Ainger,  we  cannot  recall  one  which  is  unkind.  He  was 
not  without  a  fine  elusive  malice,  but  when  he  used  it,  it  was 
the  silver  flash  of  the  blade  and  not  its  sharpness  that  we 
remember,  and  the  blade,  as  a  rule,  was  not  directed  so  much 
against  individuals  as  against  types,  against  persons  who  repre- 
sented certain  tendencies  that  were  ridiculous  in  his  eyes.  To 
preach  outside  a  pulpit  bored  him.  As  we  know,  he  had  no 
taste  for  discussion.  But  he  often  conveyed  serious  criticism 
of  life  and  books  in  a  whimsy,  or  an  adage.  He  had  been 
reading  Le  Gallienne's  Religion  of  a  Literary  Man,  published 
at  the  '  Bodley  Head,'  the  sign-board  of  the  latest  modern 
authors. 

'  I  read  in  a  Fin-de-Siecle  Bard 
And  then  I  up  and  said — 
"  O  give  us  more  of  the  godly  heart 
And  less  of  the  Bodley  Head. 

So,  at  a  dull  committee-meeting,  he  irrelevantly  wrote  on  a 
slip  of  paper  and  passed  it  on  to  Mr.  Gosse,  who  happened  to 
be  his  neighbour.  His  dislikes  were  always  effective,  and 
deeper  subjects  than  minor  poets  were  hit  off  by  his  gift 
for  multum  in  parvo.  There  was  nothing  to  which  he  objected 
more  strongly  than  latitudinarianism  ;  and  once,  some  time  in 
the  late  seventies,  when  he  took  up  a  volume  of  sermons. 
High  Hopes,  by  Congreve,  from  a  friend's  table:  'Ah,  I 
see,  High  Ropes,  by  Blondin,'  he  said,  and  he  put  the 
book  down.  But  the  image  evoked  of  the  acrobat,  then 
constantly  before  men's  eyes,  seemed  to  dispose  of  the  work. 
Or  there  is  the  rhyme,  perhaps  the  best  known  of  his,  which 
was  made  at  the  Macmillans'  table,  soon  after  the  appearance 


AINGER'S  HUMOUR  209 

of  Haweis's  book,  Music  and  Morals^  and  also  of  his  first- 
born child : 

'  Little  Baby  Haweis, 
Playiiif?  with  your  corals. 
Pa  will  mind  your  music — 
Who  will  mind  your  morals? 

And  again  the  four  nonsense  lines — a  protest  against  the 
last  thing  out  —  which  have  not  hitherto  been  generally 
recognised  as  his : 

'There  was  au  old  person  of  Delhi, 
Who  couldn't  read  Crockett's  ''Cleg  Kelly." 
When  they  said,  ''It's  the  fashion," 
He  replied  in  a  passion 
— "  What  then  ?  so  is  Marie  Corelli."  ' 

A  characteristic  of  his  wit  was  his  power  over  quotations, 
his  quick  adaptation  of  them  to  his  needs.  One  day  a 
friend  had  been  describing  Miss  Fillunger's  singing  of 
Schubert's  Hirt  mif  den  Felsen,  to  Herr  Miahlfeld's  clarinet 
accompaniment.  '  That  sounds  too  much  like  what  Lamb  said 
of  pineapple :  "  If  it  isn't  a  sin,  it  is  like  enough  to  sin  to 
give  a  pause  to  a  tender  conscience."'  This  is  one  of  many 
instances,  too  dependent  on  their  context  to  be  quoted.  Lines 
of  poetry  and  of  prose  altered  to  his  will,  stories,  nonsense- 
rhymes,  were  brought  forth  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  were 
oft«n  taken  for  his  own.  Nor  did  this  impair  his  originality; 
rather,  it  seemed  to  show  him  as  a  resourceful  administrator 
of  wit  —  a  born  editor  of  other  men's  sayings  as  well  as  a 
producer  of  his  own. 

He  was  not  always  a  good  critic  of  himself.  Readers 
of  his  letters  will  not  fail  to  remark  the  number  of  his  puns, 
or  his  pride  in  making  them ;  indeed,  perhaps  nobody  since 
Hood  has  been  so  inveterate  a  punster.  In  this  his  taste  was 
old-fashioned,  nor  is  it  likely  to  appeal  to  a  modern  world. 
Vet  he  himself  had  a  value  for  it.  Even  here  he  found  place 
for  the  moral  sense  and  tried  to  marry  wit  and  humour : 

*  To  hear,'  he  says,  in  a  subtle  analysis  of  the  ethics  of  punning, 
of  any  ordinary  man  that  he  makes  puns  is  properly  a  warning 
o  avoid  his  society.     For  with  the  funny  man,  the  verbal  coincid- 

o 


210        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

ence  is  everything ;  there  is  nothing  underlying  it,  or  beyond  it. 
In  the  hands  of  a  Hood  the  pun  becomes  an  element  in  his  fancy, 
his  humour,  his  ethical  teaching,  even  his  pathos.  As  ordinarily 
experienced,  the  pun  is  the  irreconcileable  enemy  of  these  things. 
It  could  not  dwell  with  them  "  in  one  house."  Hood  saw,  and 
was  the  first  to  show,  that  the  pun  might  become  even  their 
handmaid ;  and  in  this  confidence  dared  to  use  it  often  in  his 
serious  poems,  when  he  was  conveying  some  moral  truth  or  ex- 
pressing some  profound  human  emotion.  .  .  .  The  ordinary  pun 
is  for  the  most  part  profoundly  depressing,  being  generally  an 
impertinence ;  while  Hood's,  at  their  best,  exhilarate  and  fill  the 
reader  with  a  glow  of  admiration  and  surprise.  The  "  sudden 
glory"  which  Hobbes  pronounced  to  be  the  secret  of  the  pleasure 
derived  from  wit  is  true  of  Hood's.  .  .  .  He  never  hesitated  to 
make  the  pun  minister  to  higher  ends  and  vindicate  its  right  to 
a  share  in  quickening  men's  best  sympathies.' 

In  Ainger's  case,  the  pun  generally  '•  ministered '  to  humour 
and  to  fancy,  though  now  and  again  there  was  a  moral.  '  He 
looked  down  benignly  from  the  pulpit  with  a  pew-rental  eye,' 
he  once  said  of  a  fashionable  clergyman.  Many  of  his  sallies, 
dependent  on  the  moment  only,  are  too  ephemeral  for  repro- 
duction ;  others,  more  tangible,  remain.  There  was  one 
occasion,  at  a  dinner-party,  when  he  spilt  some  wine  upon  the 
table.  '  You  would  never  have  expected  me  to  show  such  dis- 
respect for  the  cloth,'  he  said  apologetically  to  his  hostess. 
Catastrophes  at  meal-times  seem  to  have  drawn  out  his  wit. 
There  is  a  record  of  a  luncheon  when  the  black  dress  of  a 
guest  of  his  suffered  from  an  accident  with  a  jar  of  Crosse  and 
BlackAvelFs  pickles : 

'They've  spilt  all  her  pickles — 
How  great  is  her  loss  ! 
They  don't  suit  her  Black  well. 
And  so  she  is  Cross,' 

he  exclaimed  directly.  No  less  prompt  was  his  rejoinder  one 
day,  when  some  one  told  him  that  her  dressmaker  lived  next 
door  to  Spencer  Wells,  the  surgeon  : 

'  Next  to  Mr.  Spencer  Wells, 
Madame  White  the  modiste  dwells. 
The  reason  why — are  you  a  guesser.'' 
Next  to  the  surgeon  comes  the  dresser.' 


AINGER'S  HUMOUR  211 

His  perception  of  hidden  analogies  seemed  to  spring  from 
words  while  they  were  spoken.  Even  when  his  jests,  as  in  the 
last  two  instances,  were  mere  exercises  of  ingenuity,  they 
showed  that  kind  of  tact  towards  words  in  which  he  always 
delighted.  'This  little  book,'  he  says  of  Hood's  Odes  .  .  . 
'  made  it  evident  that  "  verbal  wit "  (as  commonly  so-called) 
was  not  necessarily  the  last  resource  of  the  would-be  "  funny 
man";  but  in  the  hands  of  a  poet  and  humorist  was  capable 
of  quite  unseen  uses  and  developments."*  He  himself  dealt  in 
many  instances  of  this  kind  of  witticism: 

'  When  William  sings  his  best,  we  view- 
In  one  a  Bill  and  invoice  too,' 

was  the  Herrick-like  couplet  he  addressed  to  his  friend, 
William  Smith.  Or  there  were  the  verses,  that  he  much  en- 
joyed himself,  written  on  his  appointment  to  the  Canonry.  *  I 
profanely  spoke  of  "  cannoning  off  the  red," '  says  Mr.  Horace 
Smith,  alluding  to  this  event,  '  and  he  replied  with  the  two 
following  verses,  which  he  always  tried  to  pretend  I  had 
written ' : 

(1)  '  Ainger  's  made  Canon,  so  'tis  said. 

Because  so  very  well  he  read  : 

"Ah,  then,"  said  Smith,  demurely  winking, 

"  He's  cannoned  off  the  red,  I  'm  thinking." 

(2)  '  The  Chancellor  had  been  less  blamed 

If  some  great  preacher  he  had  named  : 
"Ah,  then,"  said  Smith,  not  even  blushin', 
"  He'd  then  have  cannoned  off  the  cushion."' 

As  to  his  mere  quickness  in  retort — his  feats  in  rhyme — we 
might  multiply  the  instances,  were  not  such  instances  lifeless 
when  repeated.  They  were  flashes  of  electricity,  meant  to  die 
with  the  occasion  which  engendered  them.  There  was  once 
a  discussion  as  to  rhymes  at  the  Macmillans',  and  some  one 
challenged  the  company  to  find  a  rhyme  for  '  porringer/ 
Immediately  there  came  back  Ainger's  rejoinder  : 

'The  Princess  Mary  fain  would  wed. 
They  gave  the  Prince  of  Orange  her, 
And  now  it  never  can  be  said, 

I  've  not  a  rhyme  for  "  porringer."  ' 


212         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

But  most  of  his  jokes  need  himself,  his  tone,  his  gesture, 
their  original  viise-en-schie^  to  produce  their  irresistibly  droll 
effect.  Among  such,  perhaps,  was  his  solution  of  a  country- 
house  difficulty — a  difficulty  as  to  how  a  large  party  of  visitors, 
at  a  place  where  he  was  staying,  was  to  divide  itself  for  the 
homeward  journey  between  a  hired  barouche  and  a  worn-out 
saddle-horse.  '  Mr.  White,'  he  said  of  a  sudden,  '  will  accom- 
pany the  party  on  the  bones."*  Yet  the  words  written  down 
sound  flat — they  miss  their  context ;  and  we  realise  that  the 
sight  of  that  woe-begone  horse,  of  the  unequestrian  Mr.  White, 
and  the  flustered  party  in  the  carriage,  could  alone  give  the 
quip  its  vitality. 

Ainger  was  not  at  his  most  amusing  when  he  indulged  in 
merely  verbal  fun.  He  was  a  treasure-house  of  the  good  stories 
that  he  had  heard,  but  the  turn  he  gave  them  made  them  his 
own.  And  he  was  not  happy  till  he  had  found  a  participator. 
'  Your  story  was  excellent,  and  I  have  already  made  several 
appreciative  persons  happy  with  it,'  he  once  wrote  to  a  Bristol 
correspondent.  '  That  was  it,'  says  his  friend,  '  he  made  him- 
self and  others  "  happy  "  with  good  stories.'  And  perhaps  no 
one  understood  as  well  as  he  that  in  intercourse  '  the  gift 
without  the  giver  is  bare.'  He  shared,  he  seemed  to  transmit, 
exhilaration  down  an  ordinary  uninspired  dinner-table — and 
he  liked  the  sense  that  he  did  so.  The  feeling  of  how  much 
he  was  enjoying  himself  was  one  of  the  most  infectious  things 
about  him  ;  and  the  converse  held  good  also,  for  his  very 
moods  were  electric  and  acted  upon  the  whole  company,  so 
that  it  would  catch  his  silence  as  at  other  times  it  caught  his 
gaiety. 

The  '  sudden  glory '  of  Ainger's  wit  was  its  allusiveness — it 
was  evoked  by  situation,  and  seldom  crystallised  into  epigram. 
Few  of  his  sayings  became  current  coin,  like  '  No  flowers,  by 
request,'  his  hon  mot  upon  the  style  of  the  Dictionary  of 
National  Biography^  made  at  a  dinner  in  its  honour.  The 
point  of  others,  more  intimate,  depends  upon  the  persons 
concerned.  'What  do  you  feel  about  this  marriage.?'  asked 
some  one  at  the  wedding  of  a  very  short  bride  and  bridegroom.^ 

*  Sec  p.  299 :  Letter  to  Mrs.  Andrew  Lang. 


AINGER'S  HUMOUR  218 

'  A  fortuitous  concurrence  of  atoms,'  was  his  swift  reply.  Or 
there  is  his  comment  on  an  impecunious  gentleman  who  had 
married  a  coloured  heiress  and  did  not  get  on  with  her.  'It 
seems  a  pity,'  he  remarked,  '  that  he  should  quarrel  with  his 
bread-and-butter,  even  though  it  is  brown.'  Again,  when  he 
was  staying  with  Archdeacon  Bather,  whose  many  relations 
lived  round  about,  and  when  he  saw  his  friend's  large  clan 
congregate,  as  was  their  Sabbath  wont,  at  the  church-door,  he 
was  suddenly  heard  to  mutter  : 

'And  when  on  Sunday  after  church 
A  crowd  upon  the  grass-plot  gathers. 
The  poet-laureate  might  have  said — 
"  You  scarce  can  see  the  grass  for  Bathers." ' 

He  said  these  things  soberly,  as  if  he  were  making  a  bare 
statement,  giving  no  sign  of  fun,  except  a  shooting  gleam 
from  his  eyes. 

Tlie  subtle  differences  between  fact  and  truth,  between 
lesser  and  greater,  were  deftly  grasped  by  Ainger ;  and  he  was 
heard  to  maintain  that  if  a  man  made  a  story  his  own  he  had 
the  right  to  embroider  it,  for  it  had  passed  from  the  domain 
of  truth  into  that  of  art.  And  this  was  piquant,  because  it 
came  from  the  most  truthful  of  men,  with  the  nicest  of  moral 
perceptions,  and  because  he  knew  the  due  limits  of  his  freedom. 

*  There  are  three  graces/  he  said,  '  of  which  wit,  if  it  is  not  the 
irreconcilable  enemy,  is  at  least  a  dangerous  neighbour — the 
love  of  truth,  charity  and  reverence.  ...  It  may  have  been  from 
a  perception  of  the  inevitable  tendency  of  wit  ...  to  exaggerate, 
...  for  tlie  purpose  of  heightening  effect  .  ,  .  that  so  sober  and 
profound  a  thinker  as  Pascal  declared  .  .  .  Diseur  de  bons  mots, 
mammis  caradere :  not  that  it  is  intrinsically  immoral  to  utter  a 
witticism,  but  because  the  desire  to  amuse  is  inherently  opposed 
to  a  reverence  for  the  sanctity  of  truth.' 

In  all  this,  in  its  flights  and  its  restrictions,  his  wit  was  very 
English,  and  it  was,  perhaps,  at  its  best  when  it  concerned 
men's  character  or  the  humours  of  society.  We  might  almost 
venture  to  say  that  no  Frenchman,  even  were  he  Sainte-Beuve, 
could  possibly  understand  it ;  it  is  too  freakish,  too  informal, 
too  humorous. 


214         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

And  when  everything  is  said,  it  is  impossible  to  recreate 
it.  With  all  good  talkers  this  is  difficult  enough,  but  in  his 
case  the  difficulty  is  trebled.  Wit,  like  Sydney  Smith's,  at  the 
same  time  greater  and  less  delicate,  is  comparatively  easy  to 
reproduce,  because  it  has  substance  and  no  wings.  Ainger's 
wit  is  of  a  different  cast ;  when  you  think  that  you  have  it,  it 
takes  flight ;  it  is  gossamer,  impossible  to  hold.  Sydney  Smith 
dealt  in  generalities  of  common  experience,  which  appeal  to 
all  sorts  of  men  :  he  was  never  too  refined — he  was  irresistibly 
exuberant — and  subtlety  was  not  what  he  made  for.  Ainger 
does  not  handle  the  affairs  of  the  majority,  for  his  wit  mostly 
applies  to  individuals,  is  often  too  intricate  to  be  quoted. 
And  he  had  a  liking  for  fine  shades,  which  are  sometimes  un- 
read by  him  who  runs.  They  had,  however,  one  point  of 
resemblance — their  conception  of  a  wit's  responsibilities. 

'  I  was  always  struck/  wrote  Ainger,  '  by  the  confession  of  one 
who  in  his  generation  was,  if  not  the  first  wit,  certainly  ''in  the 
very  first  line,"  and  on  the  whole  used  that  gift  as  not  abusing  it, 
and  in  the  service  of  the  best  and  humanest  reforms  of  his  time. 
In  lecturing  upon  wit  ...  he  used  some  such  language  as  this : 
''  I  am  convinced  that  its  tendency  is  to  corrupt  the  understanding 
and  harden  the  heart."  Sydney  Smith  was  in  earnest,  I  believe, 
Avhen  he  spoke  thus.  ...  A  wit  and  a  thinker  could  not  fail  to 
have  learned  from  the  temptations  constantly  present  to  himself 
the  danger  incident  to  those  in  whose  minds  wit  had  got  the 
upper  hand  of  thought.  A  habit  that  weakens  the  love  of  truth 
can  hardly  fail  to  corrupt  the  understanding.  By  keeping  the 
mind's  eye  fixed  upon  the  more  superficial  resemblances  between 
things,  it  must  hinder  that  growth  in  wisdom  which  is  the  prime 
duty  of  a  spiritual  being.  Nor  is  it  likely  that  a  gift  which  looks 
for  the  laughter  and  applause  of  the  moment  as  its  i*eward,  and 
which  lends  itself  so  readily  to  the  purposes  of  scorn,  should  leave 
undisturbed  the  outflow  of  the  affections.  The  desire  for  popular- 
ity is  itself  demoralising,  and  wit  is  almost  always  unscrupulous, 
for  in  unscrupulousness  lies  much  of  its  power.  .  .  .  Wit  is  seldom  a 
pioneer  or  a  reformer  ...  it  has  to  study  the  taste  of  majorities. 
...  It  tends  to  dull  the  sense  of  the  social  charities  of  every  day. 
.  .  .  But  the  question  remains  unanswered,  What  are  we  to  do  in 
this  matter?  Are  wit  and  humour  to  be  repudiated  .^  .  .  .  Are 
we  to  shun  a  witticism  as  a  thing  in  itself  disgraceful  ?  .  .  .  The 


AINGER'S  HUMOUR  215 

experiment  has  been  tried.  The  student  of  history  must  draw  his 
own  conclusions  as  to  the  success  of  the  attempt.  Puritanism 
had  its  success,  and  did  a  work  which  nothing  but  a  strong  religi- 
ous impulse  could  have  effected.  But  its  position  was  necessarily 
unstable,  for  its  ideal  of  life  was  incomplete.  .  .  .  God  gives  us 
taste,  fancy,  high  spirits.  If  we  ignore  them,  they  avenge  them- 
selves upon  us  by  leading  us  astray.  They  are  talents  and  there- 
fore handmaids  for  some  end,  and  we  must  use  them  for  some 
end,  either  in  God's  service  or  the  devil's.  Is  there  then  a 
spiritual  service  which  such  gifts  can  render  ?  Assuredly  there  is. 
Humour  is  in  the  region  of  our  intellectual  natui-e,  what  charity  is 
in  our  moral.  The  function  of  humour  is  the  exact  opposite  of 
that  of  wit.  Humour  is  ever  akin  to  sympathy.  It  is  the  power 
of  understanding  and  appreciating  the  tastes,  the  prejudices,  the 
likes  and  dislikes,  the  humours  of  others,  and  throwing  over  them 
that  atmosphere  of  charity  which  makes  men  feel  for  one  another, 
make  allowances  for  their  weaknesses,  and  understand  how  sacred 
and  solemn  a  thing  it  is  to  share  the  common  nature.' 

It    is    fitting    that    a  chapter  on  Alfred  Ainger's  humour 
should  end  upon  the  same  note  as  that  with  which  it  began. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

ALFRED  AINGER  AND   CHARLES   LAMB 

Alfred  Ainger's  friendships  in  literature  were  much  like  his 
friendships  with  persons.  With  him,  friendship  in  both 
respects  remained  what  it  always  is  in  youth,  an  excitement, 
an  ever  fresh  emotion.  And  literature  provided  him  with 
one  dominant  sentiment — his  love  for  Charles  Lamb.  He 
had  other  personal  affinities — with  Thomas  Hood,  with 
Edward  FitzGerald ;  but  in  none  were  intimacy  and  admira- 
tion combined  in  the  same  way  as  in  his  feeling  for  Elia. 
'  Those  who  love  him,'  he  once  said,  '  do  not  love  him  ...  by 
halves,  but  are  content  to  be  fanatical  in  their  attachment.' 

It  was  an  attachment,  as  we  icnow,  which  dated  '  almost 
from  his  childhood.'  Early  in  life  he  made  himself  familiar 
with  Lamb's  circumstances,  his  writings,  his  haunts,  the 
books  he  loved.  Ainger  belonged  by  birthright  to  Lamb's 
Wednesday  evenings.  His  was  a  kindred  spirit,  and  the 
connection  between  them  was  no  mere  matter  of  imitation. 

'He    chose    his    companions   from   some   individuality   of 
character  which  they  manifested.     Hence  not  many  men  of 
science,  and  few  professed  literati,  were  of  his  councils.'     So 
wrote  Lamb  of  Elia ;   and  Alfred  Ainger's  kind  of  wit,  his 
tastes,  his  perversities,  his  amenities,  all  alike  fitted  him  to  be 
one  of  that  circle.     There  were  also  certain  outward  resem- 
blances  to  link   them.     The  lives  of  both   were  early  over- 
shadowed by  deep  sorrow  and   heavy  responsibilities.     Both 
belonged  to  the  Temple  ;  both  were  of  no  time,  and  of  no 
place  except  London ;    and  both  adored  London  as  a  mother 
whose    side   they  were  loth    to    leave.      They  enjoyed  '  the 
impossibility  of  being  dull  in  Fleet  Street ;  the  crowds,  the 
very  dirt  and   mud,  the  sun  shining  upon  houses  and  pave- 
ments, the   print-shops,  the   old    book-stalls  .  .  .  steams  of 

216 


AINGER  AND   CHARLES   LAMB     217 

soup  from  kitchens,  the  pantomimes,  London  itself  a  panto- 
mime and  a  masquerade.'  These  words  from  Elia's  pen^ 
serve  as  a  formula  for  both.  And  their  very  birthdays  showed 
a  nearness  which  Ainger  was  fond  of  dwelling  on,  for  he  was 
born  on  February  9th  and  Lamb  on  the  day  following. 
Analogies  such  as  these  wove  a  bond  between  them  long 
before  the  lesser  man  became  the  greater  one's  biographer. 

It  was  in  1881  that  the  'Life  of  Charles  Lamb'  was 
published  in  Macmillan's  English  Men  of  Letters  Series ;  in 
1883,  the  same  firm  brought  out  Ainger's  edition  of  Lamb's 
Essays,  to  which  the  plays  and  poems,  the  stories  and  mis- 
cellaneous pieces,  were  added  later ;  and  in  1888,  his  studies 
of  Elia  were  completed  by  the  two  volumes  of  letters  which 
appeared  under  his  editorship. 

In  judging  and  enjoying  all  this  work  of  Ainger's,  one  thing 
must  never  be  forgotten — its  entirely  personal  nature.  He 
wrote  as  a  lover  and  a  friend,  not  as  a  scholar  or  a  student. 
His  notes  are  literary,  not  learned  ;  and  whether  as  chronicler 
or  editor,  he  seeks  to  stir  imagination  rather  than  to  feed  the 
wish  for  knowledge.  So  personal  was  he,  indeed,  that  he 
sometimes  dealt  with  his  subject  rather  like  an  actor  with  his 
part — interpreting  his  theme  according  to  a  foregone  con- 
ception. This  is,  on  the  face  of  it,  not  the  best  qualification 
for  an  editor,  and,  as  we  shall  see  later,  it  weakened  his  work 
in  that  capacity.  But  it  is  a  quahfication  for  portrait  paint- 
ing, a  certain  amount  of  elimination  being  needful  to  give 
life  to  the  picture;  and  hence  Ainger's  biography  of  Lamb 
will  remain  as  a  masterly  study  of  Elia — delicate,  harmonious, 
sincere.  So  will  his  criticism  of  Lamb's  writing,  which  for 
depth  and  truth  of  judgment,  has  hitherto  passed  unrivalled. 

No  atmosphere  could  have  better  suited  Alfred  Ainger  than 
that  of  Lamb's  circle ;  of  the  poets  of  the  Lake  School  who 
were  his  comrades.  The  omnipresence  of  their  ethical  instinct, 
even  when  they  sowed  their  wild  oats  in  the  days  of  the  Pan- 
tisocracy — the  absence  of  personal  passion  in  their  natures — 
their  domesticity — their  spiritual  beliefs — all  these  were  traits 
that  made  him  feel  intimate  with  them.  And  this  sense  of 
1  Letter  to  Wordsworth,  1801. 


218        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

familiarity  with  the  friends  of  his  friend  gave  fresh  warmth  to 
his  rendering  of  the  central  figure. 

His  L\fe  has  now  been  some  twenty-five  years  before  the 
public.  It  stands  almost  as  a  classic,  and,  at  this  date,  to 
dwell  upon  its  merits  seems  needless.  The  limitations  of 
space  imposed  by  writing  for  a  series  necessarily  kept  Ainger 
from  inserting  a  good  many  details,  which  afterwards  found 
a  place  in  his  notes  to  Lamb's  writings.  But  had  he  been 
able  to  add  them  to  his  portrait  it  would  have  gained  nothing 
essential  either  in  colour  or  in  drawing.  It  is  an  achievement 
in  the  art  of  presentment  that  his  portrait  is  complete  in 
itself;  that  restrictions  only  served  to  concentrate,  not  to 
attenuate,  his  work  ;  and  that,  from  first  to  last,  he  had  such 
confidence  in  Lamb  that  he  could  afford  to  see  him  as  a 
whole.  For  if  his  power  of  symmetry  is  noteworthy,  so  is  his 
power  of  fairness.  It  was  this  which  lent  depth  to  his  love, 
while  his  love  lent  warmth  to  his  justice.  There  is  no  part  of 
his  book  so  affecting  as  that  in  which  he  touches  on  LamVs 
infirmities.  He  is  neither  the  scientific  surgeon,  nor  the 
patronising  psychologist ;  he  is  ever  the  loyal  follower  who 
allows  none  to  dare  pity  Elia  unless  he  reverence  him  first. 
And  this  is  effected  by  no  pathetic  strokes,  but  by  a  sober 
simplicity  which  Lamb  would  have  been  the  first  to  approve. 
His  judgment  of  Elia,  the  writer,  is  redolent  of  the  same 
quality : 

'That  Lamb,'  he  says,  'was  a  poet  was  at  the  root  of  his 
greatness  as  a  critic ;  and  his  own  judgments  of  poetry  show  the 
same  sanity  to  which  he  points  in  his  poetical  brethren.  He  is 
never  so  impulsive  or  discursive  that  he  fails  to  show  how  un- 
erring is  his  judgment  on  all  points  connected  with  the  poet's  art. 
There  had  been  those  before  Lamb,  for  example,  who  had  quoted 
and  called  attention  to  the  poetry  of  George  Wither ;  but  no  one 
had  thought  of  noticing  that  his  metre  was  also  that  of  Ambrose 
Phillips,  and  that  Pope  and  his  friends  had  only  proved  their  own 
defective  ear  by  seeking  to  make  it  ridiculous.  "  To  the  measure 
in  which  these  lines  are  written,  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne's  days 
contemptuously  gave  the  name  of  Namby-Pamby,  in  ridicule  of 
Ambrose  Phillips,  who  has  used  it  in  some  instances,  as  in  the 
lines  on   Cuzzoni,  to  my  feeling  at  leasts  very  delieiously  ;   but 


AINGER  AND  CHARLES  LAMB    219 

Wither,  whose  darling  measure  it  seems  to  have  been,  may  show 
that  in  skilful  hands  it  is  capable  of  expressing  the  subtlest  move- 
ment of  passion.  So  true  it  is,  what  Drayton  seems  to  have  felt, 
that  it  is  the  poet  who  modifies  the  metre,  not  the  metre  the 
poet."  It  was  in  the  margin  of  a  copy  of  Wither's  poems  that 
this  exquisite  comment  was  originally  made ;  and  in  such  a  casual 
way  did  much  of  Lamb's  finest  criticism  come  into  being.  All 
through  his  life,  in  letter  and  essay,  he  was  making  remarks  of 
this  kind,  throwing  them  out  by  the  way,  never  thinking  that 
they  would  be  hereafter  treasured  up  as  the  most  luminous  and 
penetrative  judgments  of  the  century.  .  .  .  If  the  spiritual  insight 
of  Coleridge,  and  the  unwearied  industry  and  sober  commonsense 
of  Southey  could  be  combined  with  the  special  genius  of  Charles 
Lamb,  something  like  the  ideal  commentary  on  English  literature 
might  be  the  result.' 

Or  take  this  passage : 

'  It  may  well  be  asked  why,  with  such  a  range  of  sympathy, 
from  Marlowe  to  Ambrose  Phillips,  from  Sir  T.  Browne  to  Sir 
William  Temple,  he  was  so  limited,  so  one-sided,  in  his  estimate 
of  the  literature  of  his  own  age  .''  It  is  true  that  he  was  among 
the  first  in  England  to  appreciate  Burns  and  Wordsworth.  But 
to  Scott,  Byron,  and  Shelley  he  entertained  a  feeling  almost  of 
aversion.  He  was  glad  (as  we  gather  from  the  essay  on  the 
Sanity  of  True  Genius)  that  "ahap23ier  genius"  had  arisen  to  expel 
the  "  innutritious  phantoms "  of  the  Minerva  Press ;  but  the 
success  of  the  Waverley  Novels  seems  to  have  caused  him  amaze- 
ment rather  than  any  other  feeling.  About  Byron  he  wrote  to 
Joseph  Cottle  :  "  I  have  a  thorough  aversion  to  his  character,  and 
a  very  moderate  admiration  of  his  genius :  he  is  great  in  so  little 
a  way.  To  be  a  poet  is  to  be  the  man,  not  a  petty  portion  of 
occasional  low  passion  worked  up  in  a  permanent  form  of 
humanity."  Shelley's  poetry,  he  told  Barton,  he  did  not  under- 
stand, and  that  it  was  "  thin  sown  with  profit  or  delight."  When 
he  read  Goethe's  Faust  (of  course  in  an  English  version)  he  at  once 
pronounced  it  inferior  to  Marlowe's  in  the  chief  7rto/n'e  of  the  plot, 
and  was  evidently  content  to  let  criticism  end  there.  Something 
of  this  may  be  ascribed  to  a  jealousy  in  Lamb — a  strange  and 
needless  jealousy  for  his  own  loved  writers  of  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries,  and  a  fear  lest  the  newcomers  should 
usurp  some  of  the  praise  and  renown  that  he  claimed  for  them  ; 
something,  also,  to  a  perverseness  in  him  which  made  him  like  to 


220         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  ATNGER 

be  in  opposition  to  the  current  opinion,  whatever  it  might  be. 
He  was  often  unwilHng,  rather  than  unable,  to  discuss  the  claims 
of  a  new  candidate  for  public  favour.  He  lived  mainly  in  com- 
munion with  an  older  literature.  It  was  to  him  inexhaustible  in 
amount  and  in  excellence,  and  he  was  impatient  of  what  sought 
to  divert  his  attention  from  it.  It  was  literally  true  of  him  that 
'*  when  a  new  book  came  out — he  read  an  old  one."  ' 

This  might  with  equal  truth  have  been  said  of  Alfred 
Ainger ;  and  the  same  resemblance  will  be  recognised  in  what 
follows : 

'  The  truth  is,  that  for  Lamb  to  enjoy  a  work  of  humour  it  must 
embody  a  strong  human  interest,  or  at  least  have  a  pulse  of 
humanity  throbbing  through  it.  Humour,  without  pity  or  tender- 
ness, only  repelled  him.  It  was  another  phase  of  the  same  quality 
in  him,  that — as  we  have  seen  in  his  estimate  of  Byron — when  he 
was  not  drawn  to  the  man,  he  was  almost  disabled  from  admiring, 
or  even  understanding,  the  man's  work.  Had  he  ever  come  face 
to  face  with  the  author  for  a  single  evening,  the  result  might  have 
been  quite  different.  There  is  no  difficulty,  therefore,  in  detect- 
ing the  limitations  of  Lamb  as  a  critic.  In  a  most  remarkable 
degree  he  had  the  defects  of  his  qualities.  Where  his  heart  was, 
there  his  judgment  was  sound.  Where  he  actively  disliked  or 
was  passively  indifferent,  his  critical  powers  remained  dormant. 
He  was  too  fond  of  paradox,  too  much  at  the  mercy  of  his 
emotions  or  the  mood  of  the  hour,  to  be  a  safe  guide  always. 
But  where  no  disturbing  forces  interfered,  he  exercised  a  faculty 
almost  unique  in  the  history  of  criticism.' 

There  is  not  a  word   here    that    Ainger   would    not    have 

endorsed  about  himself.      There  are  other  points  of  analogy 

wliich    one  feels    he  recognised — qualities   and   gifts,  his   by 

nature,  which  comparison  probably  accentuated  in  him.     This 

is  perhaps  truest  of  certain  aspects  of  his  wit — his  love  for 

*  the  senseless  pun,'  and 

*The  Bee-like  Epigram 
Which  a  two-fold  tribute  brings 
(Honey  gives  at  once  and  stings) ' ;  ' 

or  else  a  turn  for  the  Acrostic — which  fascinated  Lamb  too — 
the  more  so,  Ainger  tells  us,  because  it  was  of  old  '  a  favourite 

'  Album-verses  to  Mrs.  Augustus  de  Morgan,  by  Lamb. 


AINGER  AND  CHARLES  LAMB     221 

amusement  of  the  Elizabethans."'  Nor  was  the  cultivated 
allusiveness,  so  marked  in  Ainger's  talk  and  writing,  unrelated 
to  his  greater  model.  He  himself  applies  the  word  to  Lamb. 
'  Another  feature  of  his  style/  he  writes,  '  is  its  allusiveness. 
He  is  rich  in  quotations.  .  .  .  And  besides  those  avowedly 
introduced  as  such,  his  style  is  full  of  quotations  held — if  the 
expression  may  be  allowed — in  solution."'  Both  men,  too, 
were  the  creatures  of  moods.  '  Whatever  is,  is  to  me  a  matter 
of  taste  or  distaste ;  or  when  once  it  becomes  indifferent,  it 
begins  to  be  disrelishing.  I  am,  in  plainer  words,  a  bundle  of 
prejudices — made  up  of  likings  and  dislikings — the  veriest 
thrall  to  sympathies,  apathies,  antipathies."  These  words  of 
LamKs  might  not  inaptly  serve  as  an  epitome  of  Lamb's 
biographer. 

The  next  piece  of  work  that  fell  to  Ainger's  pen  was  his 
edition  of  LamVs  works  :  the  Essays  and  the  Last  Essays  of 
Elia,  which  came  out  in  1883;  the  Poems  and  Plays  and 
Miscellaneous  Essays,  the  Poems  and  Plays,  and  Mrs.  Leicester''s 
School  and  other  Writings,  together  with  the  Tales  from 
Shakspeare,  all  published  in  the  next  three  years. 

He  has  himself  defined  his  principle  of  selection  in  the 
editing  of  the  Essays — a  principle,  of  course,  only  exercised 
upon  the  smaller  pieces  collected  from  various  periodicals,^ 
and  now  bound  up  by  him  with  Mrs.  Leicester  s  School. 

'  Every  writer  of  mark,'  he  says, '  leaves  behind  him  shreds 
and  remnants  of  stuff",  some  of  which  are  characteristic  and 
worthy  of  preservation,  and  some  are  otherwise ;  and  it  is,  in 
my  deliberate  opinion,  an  injustice  to  any  such  writer  to 
dilute  his  reputation  by  publishing  every  scrap  of  writing  he 
is  known  to  have  produced,  merely  because  the  necessity  of 
making  a  choice  may  expose  the  editor  to  the  risk  of  censure."'^ 
'Some  half-dozen  prose  pieces ""  are  consequently  left  out — 
among  them  the  '  unsavoury "'  Vision  of  Horns,  which  no  true 
lover  of  Elia  will  regret ;  though  so  much  can  hardly  be  said 
for  the  omission  of  that  ethereal  fragment — that  masterpiece 

1  Chiefly  by  Mr.  Babson,  who  began  to  publish  them  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
Magazine^  in  1863. 

'  Introduction  to  Mrs,  Leicester's  School,  and  other  Writings  in  Frose  and  Verse. 


222        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

of  moonshine — The  Defeat  of  Time.,  a  translation  into  prose 
of  Hood's  poem,  the  Plea  of'  the  Alldsiimmer  Fairies,  which  is 
recreated  by  Lamb  in  his  own  image. 

Ainger''s  notes  to  these  four  volumes  of  Lamb's  works  make 
in  themselves  racy  reading,  much  like  good  conversation,  rich 
in  allusion  and  story  rather  than  in  scientific  learning.  '  The 
impertinence,""  he  says,  '  of  criticism  or  comment,  I  hope  has 
been  almost  entirely  avoided,'  and  his  hope  is  amply  justified. 
They  are  notes  to  feed  enjoyment  without  choking  it — notes 
also  of  elucidation.  For  as  '  some  clue  to  the  many  disguises 
...  in  which  the  essays  abound,'  he  has  had  in  his  hand  a 
priceless  '  list  of  initials ' — the  real  names  filled  in  by  Lamb 
himself  in  his  unmistakable  handwriting.  But  the  most 
attractive  part  of  his  editor's  work  is  the  criticism.  He  knows 
that  you  must  enjoy  before  you  can  discern.  He  does  not 
explain,  he  suggests ;  and  for  searching,  yet  not  over-subtle 
appreciation  of  Elia,  no  better  instance  could  be  found  than 
his  Introductions  to  the  Essays  and  the  Poems : 

'  It  is  in  such  passages  as  these  that  Lamb  shows  himself,  that 
indeed  he  is  the  last  of  the  Ehzabethans ' — so  he  writes  after 
quoting  an  extract  from  The  Old  Benchers  of  the  Inner  Temple. 
'  He  had  learned  their  great  language,  and  yet  he  had  early 
discovered,  with  the  keen  eye  of  a  humorist,  how  effective  for  his 
purpose  was  the  touch  of  the  pedantic  and  the  fantastical  from 
which  the  noblest  of  them  were  not  wholly  free.  He  was  thus 
able  to  make  even  their  weaknesses  a  fresh  source  of  delight,  as  he 
dealt  with  them  from  the  vantage  ground  of  two  centuries.^  He 
remains,  and  seems  likely  to  remain,  the  last  of  the  moderns  whose 
affinity  with  the  genius  of  the  Elizabethan  age  enabled  him  to 
write,  at  one  moment,  in  the  soliita  oraiio — the  "  linked  sweetness 
long  drawn  out "  of  Jeremy  Taylor ;  and  at  another  with  the 
closely  blended  wit  and  tenderness  of  the  later  Euphuists ;  and 
in  both  so  to  write  as  one  who  was  ''to  the  manner  born." ' 

'  Hang  the  Age ! '  exclaimed  Lamb  one  day,  when  some 
editor  objected  to  his  style  as  out  of  harmony  with  the  taste 
of  the  day ;  '  Hang  the  Age !  I  will  Avrite  for  Antiquity ! ' 
And  in  a  sense  this  always  remained  his  habit.'- 

^  Introduction  to  Essays,  2  Introduction  to  Poems,  Flays,  etc. 


AINGER  AND  CHARLES  LAMB     223 

Or  again,  this,  on  his  humour : 

'  To  many  other  quahties  that  go  to  make  up  that  highly  com- 
posite thing,  Lamb's  humour — to  that  feature  of  it  that  consists 
in  the  unabashed  display  of  his  own  unconventionality — his 
difference  from  other  people — and  to  that  "metaphysical"  quality 
of  his  wit  which  belonged  to  him  in  a  far  truer  sense  than  as 
applied  to  Cowley  and  his  school,  it  is  sufficient  to  make  a  passing 
reference.  But  the  mention  of  Cowley,  by  whom,  with  Fuller, 
Donne,  and  the  rest,  his  imagination  was  assuredly  shaped 
reminds  us  once  more  of  the  charm  that  belongs  to  the  "  old  and 
antique"  strain  heard  through  all  his  more  earnest  utterances. 
As  we  listen  to  Elia  the  moralist,  now  with  the  terse  yet  stately 
egotism  of  one  old  master,  now  in  the  long-drawn-out  harmonies 
of  another,  we  live  again  with  the  thinkers  and  dreamers  of  two 
centuries  ago.'  ^ 

And  this,  finally,  about  his  style : 

'  One  feels,  rather  than  recognises,  that  a  phrase  or  idiom  or 
turn  of  expression  is  an  echo  of  something  that  one  has  heard  or 
read  before.  Yet  such  is  the  use  made  of  his  material  that  a 
charm  is  added  by  the  very  fact  that  we  are  thus  continually 
renewing  our  experience  of  an  older  day.  His  style  becomes 
aromatic,  like  the  perfume  of  rose-leaves  in  a  china  jar.'  - 

A  harder  editorial  task  awaited  Ainger  when  he  undertook 
to  annotate  Lamb's  Letters.  There  had  been,  as  is  well  known, 
several  incomplete  editions  before  his.  First  Talfourd's  charm- 
ing and  unprofessional  volumes  (1837  and  1847)  containing 
comparatively  few  letters,  mostly  undated  and  unarranged,  yet 
quickened  with  yesterday ""s  remembrance,  the  ink  as  yet  hardly 
dry  upon  them.  There  was  nothing  after  this  till  1868, 
when  with  W.  Carew  Hazlitt  as  initiator  and  Sala  as  editor,  a 
collection  of  letters  appeared.  But  it  only  got  as  far  as  one 
volume,  and  remained  unfinished.  Two  years  later,  Hazlitt 
resumed  the  task,  aided  by  the  Moxons,  with  Purnell  in  the 
place  of  Sala ;  finally,  in  1875,  Percy  Fitzgerald  undertook  the 
work,  and  brought  out  the  edition  known  by  his  name.  It  had 
one  advantage  over  others — that  he  had  a  larger  number  of 
originals  to  copy  from  than  any  of  his  successors  are  likely  to 

1  Introduction  to  the  Essays.  "  Ibid. 


224         LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

have,  so  many  of  these  manuscripts  now  being  scattered  far 
afield.  In  1886,  Hazlitt  published  yet  another  edition 
including  Talfourd's  Memorials  and  Letters^  with  large  addi- 
tions of  his  own  ;  and  in  1888,  there  came  Canon  Ainger''s  two 
volumes,  including  many  fresh  letters,  and  especially  those  to 
John  Dibdin.  No  collection  since  Talfourd's,  till  this  one, 
had  borne  the  impress  of  a  first-hand  critic  or  so  strong  a  mark 
of  personal  friendship.  Ainger  was  in  the  direct  Talfourd  line 
— of  the  race  that  Elia  loved — which  looked  upon  portraiture 
as  an  art  and  not  a  science ;  which  set  character  above  all, 
and  tested  a  man  by  what  was  known  of  him  rather  than  by 
piling  up  of  detail — detail,  too,  which  serves  for  little  else 
than  to  prove  the  editor''s  accuracy.  Still  able  to  distinguish 
between  the  office  of  the  biographer  and  that  of  the  excavator, 
he  did  not  set  a  fictitious  value  upon  every  broken  fragment 
that  turned  up  from  the  soil  in  which  he  dug ;  every  note  of 
invitation  or  thanks. 

His  qualities,  however,  had  their  defects,  and,  as  we  already 
pointed  out,  he  sometimes  dealt  rather  freely  with  his  material. 
Yet  when  he  suppressed  a  phrase  or  an  expletive  it  was  because 
he  believed,  as  we  do  with  those  we  love,  that  he  knew  Lamb 
better  than  Lamb  knew  himself;  or,  at  least,  that  it  seemed 
to  him  disloyal  to  remember  words  spoken  when  his  friend  was 
not  at  his  best.  But  he  did  not  actually  leave  out  any  feature 
essential  to  the  whole — he  only  somewhat  slurred  over  that 
side  of  Elia's  wit  which  pleased  him  least.  Nor  would  Elia 
have  reproached  him.  '  I  think  I  have  a  wider  range  of 
buffoonery  than  you.  Too  much  toleration  perhaps' — the 
sentence  that  Lamb  wrote  to  Wordsworth  —  would  surely 
have  been  the  only  admonition  he  would  have  addressed  to 
Alfred  Ainger.  He  himself,  in  speaking  of  the  Letters^  has 
summed  up  the  matter  in  his  own  words  : 

'  What,'  he  asks,  *  constitutes  the  abiding  fascination  of  Lamb's 
personality?  Not  his  funny  sayings — let  the  "funny  man"  of 
every  generation  lay  this  well  to  heart.  His  humour?  Yes — for 
his  humour  was  part  and  parcel  of  his  character.  It  is  chai'acter 
that  makes  men  loved.  It  was  the  rai"e  combination  in  Lamb  of 
strength  and  weakness.     He  was  "  a  hero,  with  a  failing."     His 


AINGER  AND  CHARLES  LAMB     225 

heroism  was  greater  than  many  of  us  could  hope  to  show. 
Charity,  in  him,  most  assuredly  fulfilled  the  well-known  defini- 
tion. It  suffered  long  and  was  kind;  it  thought  no  evil;  and  it 
never  vaunted  itself  nor  was  puffed  up.  And  as  we  watch  its 
daily  manifestations,  never  asking  for  the  world's  recognition, 
never  thinking  it  had  done  enough,  or  could  do  enough,  for  its 
beloved  object,  we  may  well  reckon  it  large  enough  to  cover  a 
greater  multitude  of  frailties  than  those  we  are  able  to  detect  in 
the  life  of  Charles  Lamb.'  ^ 

Ainger's  notes  to  the  Letters  are,  like  those  to  the  Essays^ 
models  from  the  literary  point  of  view — discursive  yet  com- 
pressed ;  little  storehouses  of  biography,  not  only  of  Lamb, 
but  of  his  circle.  Here  and  there,  too,  we  come  upon  treasure 
trove :  a  new  or  little-known  story,  an  unpublished  set  of 
album-verses  ;  unconsidered  trifles,  perhaps,  but  of  the  true 
Elia  metal.  But  Ainger  belonged  to  the  school  of  editor 
now  obsolete — that  of  the  cultivated  gentleman  with  a  pre- 
judice in  favour  of  reverence,  the  school  most  antipathetic  to 
some  young  editors  of  to-day,  Autres  temps,  autr-es  mceurs 
— and  mceurs  are  not  the  idol  that  this  generation  has  chosen. 
One  merit,  however,  it  cannot  deny  to  the  elder  critic. 
Through  all  his  editing  Ainger  never  forgets  what  a  dis- 
tinguished lover  of  Lamb  has  pointed  out :  that  '  whoever 
has  on  his  bookshelves  the  Essays  and  Last  Essays  of  EUa^ 
and  the  contents,  in  whatever  form,  of  the  two  volumes  first 
published  in  1818,  and  an  edition  of  the  Letters,  has  within 
his  reach  all  that  is  necessary  to  enable  him  to  do  the  only 
thing  that  really  matters,  that  is,  participate  in  the  joy  of 
Charles  Lamb.'^  The  'only  thing'  is  too  often  forgotten  by 
the  conscience-ridden  expert  editor  of  recent  days,  who  well- 
nigh  buries  the  genius  before  him  beneath  the  mass  of  evidence 
collected,  and  refuses  to  reject  any  scrap  of  paper  lest  thereby 
he  compromise  his  own  soul — the  man  whose  work  seems  to 
prove  that  the  ancient  spirit  of  hair-splitting,  chased  from  its 
natural  strongholds,  has  now  taken  refuge  in  the  criticism  of 
art  and  cannot  be  at  home  there. 

'  '  The  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb,'  MaciniUan^s  Magazine, 
^  Augustine  Birrell,  The  Speaker,  July  i8,  1903. 

r 


226         LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

Ainger's  seven  years'  work  upon  Lamb  brought  him  many 
interesting  experiences  besides  those  of  study.  He  went  upon 
voyages  of  discovery,  and  had  letters  from  remote  correspon- 
dents. Among  the  many  that  reached  him  were  a  few  from 
persons  who  had  known  Charles  Lamb.  And  the  first  of  these 
is  from  the  pen  of  Vice-Chancellor  Bacon,  written  in  his 
ninety-third  year :  ^ 

'.  .  .  My  personal  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Lamb  was  by  no 
means  intimate.  I  knew  him  first  through  John  Dibdin — one  of 
my  earliest  and  dearest  friends — whose  name  appears  among  the 
letters  you  have  preserved,  and  who  well  deserved  the  affection- 
ate interest  in  which  he  was  held  by  C.  L.  It  was  shortly  after 
hisj  J.  D.'s,  death  (as  well  as  I  recollect)  that  I  again  met  C.  L.  at 
the  house  of  Mr.  Godwin.  It  must  have  been,  I  think,  in  1824  or 
5  (these  dates  are  somewhat  puzzling  to  us  old  people)  that  I, 
who  was  then  a  Lamb  student,  living  in  lofty  chambers  in  Gray's 
Inn  Square,  prevailed  upon  Godwin  and  his  wife,  and  his  daugh- 
ter, the  widowed  Mrs.  Shelley,  to  visit  me  and  to  bring  with  them 
C  L.  and  his  sister  Miss  Lamb.  It  is  a  long  time  ago — but  I 
retain  a  vivid  recollection  of  several  most  agreeable  evenings  in 
which,  after  tea,  there  ensued  a  modest  repast  of  sandwiches — 
which,  in  his  jocund  letters,  he  calls  "brencheese."  This  must 
have  been  about  the  days  of  the  London  Magazine,  but  after  the  un- 
fortunate duel,"  which  was  (perhaps)  the  cause  of  the  failure  of  this 
once  promising  periodical.  Some  of  the  contributors — Hamilton 
Reynolds,  James  Weathercock  (Wainewright),  who,  if  he  escaped 
it,  deserved  hanging,  and  others ;  the  brothers  Charles  and 
Edwin  Landseer,  and  other  young  painters  and  members  of  the 
Corps  dramatiqnc — enlivened  the  assembly  occasionally.  In  all 
the  doings  there  the  influence  of  C.  L.  was  constantly  perceived. 
Without  any  remarkable  flashes  of  wit,  he  shed  around  a  spirit  of 
mirth — threw  in  gleams  of  irresistible  drollery — pulled  away  the 
mask  of  all  seriousness,  and  evoked  the  spirit  of  fun  out  of  the 
most  unpromising  subjects. 

'All  these  diversions,  however,  came  to  an  end.  I  had  to 
descend  from  my  air-built  abode  and  to  engage  in  more 
serious  labours.  I  became  married,  and  was  called  to  the  Bar 
early  in   1827,  and  had,  of  necessity,  to  occupy  chambers  on  the 

^   1890,  after  receiving  Canon  Ainger's  edition  of  the  Letters. 

*  Between  Scott,  the  editor,  and  Christie ;  Scott  was  killed  (1821). 


AINGER  AND   CHARLES  LAMB     227 

ground  floor  for  the  access  of  possible  clients,  and  to  engage  in 
pursuits  whichj  for  the  next  sixty  and  more  years  of  my  existence, 
occupied  all  my  thoughts  and  commanded  all  my  exertions,  and 
so  I  lost  or  relinquished  many  of  my  earlier  acquaintances. 

'  Your  most  pleasant  books  have  called  up  the  remembrance  of 
former  days  and  departed  friends.  "  I  cannot  but  remember  such 
things  were/'  and  were  most  precious  to  me. 

'  The  letters  are  not  only  delightful  in  themselves,  grave,  gay, 
severe,  pathetic,  and  all  redolent  of  the  rare  spirit  which  has 
made  Elia  a  joy  for  ever;  but  because  they  give  a  most  faithful 
portrait  of  the  writer  "as  he  lived" — not  a  photograph  which 
draws  only  a  momentary  glimpse  of  the  object — but  a  durable 
presentment,  which  displays  it  in  its  various  moods  and  in  its  true 
colours,  and  speaks  its  very  words. 

'  I  congratulate  you  upon  the  care,  and  skill,  and  good  taste, 
with  which  you  have  shown  the  world  how  well  C.  L.  deserves  the 
admiration  you  feel  for  him — and  which  is  the  best  reward  you 
can  desire  for  the  labour  of  love  you  have  bestowed  upon  your 
task. 

*  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  I  am  sincerely  and  faithfully  yours. — 

'James  Bacon.' 

'  That  quotation  from  Macduff's  lament  over  his  children, 
"  I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were,"  moved  me  more 
than  I  can  tell,'  was  Ainger's  comment  on  this  letter  in  one  of 
his  own  to  Dykes  Campbell.  Another  among  his  correspon- 
dents might  have  made  the  same  quotation — one  Miss  Sarah 
Ann  Hunter,  who,  in  her  youth,  had  lived  near  Elia,  at 
Enfield,  and  wrote  thus  about  him  to  Canon  Ainger — 

' .  .  .  I  have  some  little  scruples  about  sending  the  lines 
written  by  Charles  Lamb  on  me  to  a  stranger.  It  seems  foolishly 
egotistical !  Yet  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  it  is ;  for  at  seventy- 
one,  the  Self'  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  has  so  long  passed  away,  I 
may  as  well  think  of  it  as  an  old  friend  of  former  times,  who 
had  much  girlish  enjoyment  in  the  Poet's  company,  and  com- 
plimentary lines. 

'It  was  at  Enfield  we  met;  as  my  grandmother  resided  near 
Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister,  and  there  was  social  intercourse 
between  the  inmates  of  the  two  houses. 

I  was  still  a  schoolgirl  and  on  a  holiday  visit,  and  I  had  some 


228        LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

very  pleasant  walks  with  Charles  Lamb  and  Emma  Isola,  when 
one  day  he  left  an  envelope  addressed  : — 

"  Miss  Hunter, 
"With  C.  L.'s  respects. 
"  May  be  opened  by  any  one." 
"  Inside  was  a  half-sheet  of  j^aper  with  : — 

SONG. 
1. 

"  Old  bards  have  rehears'd  how  with  quiver  and  bow 
Tlie  bright  virgin  goddess  a-hunting  would  go  ; 
All  day  thro'  the  forests  her  shafts  she  let  fly  ; 
And  at  eve  chased  her  brother^  the  Sun,  down  the  sky. 
But  a  mortal  we  boast  of,  that  rival  her  can  ; 
'Tis  the  Hunter  of  Hunters — the  fair  Sarah  Ann. 

2. 
No  need  has  our  Cynthia  of  hounds,  or  of  horns, 
And  the  troublesome  load  of  a  quiver  she  scorns  ; 
Soft  looks  are  her  arrows,  whenever  she  speeds, 
And  the  victim,  that  feels  them,  contentedly  bleeds. 
Soft  looks  are  her  arrows — escape  her  who  can — 
This  Hunter  of  Hunters,  this  fair  Sarah  Ann. 

3. 
Diana,  besides,  was  a  bit  of  a  Prude, 
And  turn'd  folks  into  stags,  that  presum'd  to  be  rude, 
Ou-r  Dian,  less  cruel,  all  rudeness  defies. 
And  the  boldest  turn  modest,  subdued  by  her  eyes. 
Then  fill  up  a  bumpei- — refuse  it  who  can — 
To  this  Hunter  of  Hunters,  this  fair  Sarah  Ann. 

(Signed)  Chs.  Lamb." 

'  As  I  was  a  very  practical  girl,  I  do  not  think  I  duly  appreciated 
being  a  modern  Cynthia ;  but  I  valued  the  poet's  kindness,  and 
felt  a  very  warm  regard  for  the  bright  little  old  man  who  took 
notice  of  me,  and  laughed  at  my  fun  as  if  he  were  but  a  school- 
boy. My  seniors,  on  the  contrary,  thought  of  the  lines  as  they 
deserved,  particularly  my  mother,  who  was  much  pleased  with 
them. 

'  I  have  written  to  Canada  for  some  lines  Mr.  Lamb  wrote  on  a 
very  beautiful  girl  connected  with  our  family ;  if  I  get  them  I 
will  send  them  to  you. — Yours  truly,  Sarah  Ann  Hunter. 

'  Temple  Villa,  Orchard  Road, 
Kingston-on-Thames,  Feb.  10th,  1886.' 


AINGER  AND  CHARLES   LAMB     229 

Sometimes,  too,  we  come  upon  some  note,  a  question,  a 
statement,  which  conjures  up  spirits  from  the  past.  Most 
readers  of  Lamb  will  remember  William  Ayrton,  the  friend  of 
the  Burneys,  the  musical  critic,  to  whom  Lamb  addressed  his 
brilliant  verses  beginning : — 

'  Oh  Mr.  Ayrtou  ! 
For  all  your  rare  tone  — 

It  is  amusing  to  find  his  son  writing  in  1883  from  Saltburn 
to  claim  a  joke  for  his  father — a  joke  made  some  sixty  years 
before. 

'  I  enclose  a  note,"*  he  says,  *  of  my  recollections  of  Lamb's 
eccentricity  at  a  Wednesday  evening  at  my  father's.  If  you 
have  an  opportunity,  state  that  "Martin,  if  dirt  were  trumps"  ^ 
was  not  Lamb's,  but  my  father's ;  this,  I  have  more  than  once 
heard  my  father  claim.' 

This  had  come  in  answer  to  a  note  from  Canon  Ainger, 
interesting  merely  because  it  shows  the  way  he  set  to  work.  '  Of 
course'  (it  runs)  '  there  are  in  existence  many  letters  of  Lamb's 
that  are  merely  notes — accepting  invitations,  or  making  appoint- 
ments for  social  gatherings,  which  contain  few  or  no  special 
indications  of  Lamb's  humour  or  character.  Such  as  these  are 
hardly  worth  printing,  but  I  am  sure  there  must  be  many  still 
in  existence  that  exhibit  traits  of  his  humour  or  eccentricity, 
and  throw  light  on  his  character  or  peculiarities.  I  will  most 
gladly  leave  to  your  critical  judgment  to  select  any  of  the 
letters  in  your  possession  that  may  seem  to  you  interesting  for 
the  just-mentioned  or  any  other  reasons.' 

Correspondents  such  as  these,  who  had  seen  Elia  in  the 
flesh,  were  necessarily  few,  and  they  also  have  now  passed 
away.  But  other  sources  of  knowledge  remain.  With  Lamb 
it  was — and  is — 'Love  me,  love  my  friends';  and  to  such  as 
do  so,  the   following   letter   about   Thomas   Manning,^   the 

^  '  Martin,  if  dirt  were  trumps,  what  a  hand  you  'd  have.'  Reported  to  have 
been  said  by  Charles  Lamb  to  Martin  Burney  at  a  game  of  whist  on  one  of 
Lamb's  Wednesday  evenings. 

'^  Thomas  Manning  was  mathematical  tutor  at  Caius  College,  Cambridge, 
and  it  was  in  that  town  that  he  first  met  Charles  Lamb,  in  1799.  'After  he 
had  lived  at  Cambridge  for  some  years  he  began  to  brood  over  the  mysterious 


230        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

Chinese  traveller,  the  recipient  of  some  of  Lamb's  best  letters, 
'  the  most  wonderful  man  he  ever  knew,'  will  perhaps  be  not 
unwelcome.  It  was  written  by  Mr.  J.  E.  Davis,  of  the  Middle 
Temple, an  Elian  scholar  and  Canon  Ainger's  constant  colleague 
in  his  labours. 

Of  Manning  he  writes  : — 

'  I  am  not  aware  of  nor  can  I  find  any  source  of  information 
beyond  what  is  disclosed  by  Procter  and  by  Lamb's  letters.  I  am 
trying  to  trace  Manning's  doings  in  China  from  1805  to  1815. 
Procter  says  he  understood  his  original  intention  when  he  set  out 
for  China  was  to  frame  and  publish  a  Chinese  and  English 
dictionary,  and  that  he  brought  over  much  material  for  the 
purpose  ;  but  there  are  indications,  as  you  know,  that  this  labour 
was  subsidiary  of  the  missionary  spirit  ("  you  are  gone  to  plant  the 
cross  of  Christ ").  I  take  it  that  Manning  was  acquiring  know- 
ledge of  every  kind  likely,  or  rather  inevitable,  to  be  of  use  when 
out.  Lamb,  writing  to  Hazlitt,  Nov.  10,  1805,  says  "  Manning  is 
come  to  town  in  spectacles,  and  studies  phj/sic ;  is  melancholy, 
and  seems  to  have  something  in  his  head,  which  he  don't  impart." 

*  Although  the  inference  is  that  Manning  kept  his  intentions  to 
himself,  there  are  indications  in  Lamb's  letter  to  him  of  July 
I7th  in  the  same  year,  that  he  had  disclosed  an  intention  to  take 
a  voyage. 

'Manning  was  off  early  in  1806,  contemplating  an  absence  of 
four  years.  It  is  remarkable  that  Lamb,  writing  to  him  on  May 
1 0th,  says  "  the  four  years  you  talk  of  may  be  ten."  Ten  years 
was  the  time  Manning  was  away.  I  have  not  as  yet  found  any 
trace  of  Manning's  work  in  China,  but  it  is  odd  if  such  a  large- 
hearted  man,  as  he  evidently  was,  did  not  leave  his  mark  some- 
where.    I  am   myself  so  narrow-minded  as  not  to  expect  from 

empire  of  China,'  and  'resolved  to  enter  the  Celestial  Empire  at  all  hazards.' 
He  studied  Chinese  in  France  as  well  as  in  England,  and  when  he  went  home 
in  1803,  his  passport  was  the  only  one  that  Napoleon  signed  for  an  Englishman 
returning  to  his  country  after  the  war  broke  out — a  fact  entirely  due  '  to  the 
respect  in  which  his  undertaking  was  held  by  the  learned  men  at  Paris.'  He 
went  to  Lhasa  in  181 1,  and  remained  away  for  nearly  twelve  years,  after  which 
he  came  back  to  Europe  a  disappointed  man.  He  lived  in  Italy  from  1827-1829, 
and  after  that  in  England,  first  '  in  strict  retirement'  at  Bexley,  then  in  a  cottage 
near  Dartford.  '  He  led  a  very  eccentric  life.  It  is  said  that  he  never  furnished 
his  cottage,  but  only  had  a  few  chairs,  one  carpet,  and  a  large  library  of  Chinese 
books.  He  wore  a  milky  white  beard  down  to  his  waist.'  He  died  at  Bath, 
in  1840. 


AINGER  AND  CHARLES  LAMB    231 

a  missionary  of  the  ordinary  type  the  capacity  to  enter  with 
zeal  into  the  topics  of  the  letter  referred  to,  indeed,  of  much  that 
Lamb  wrote. 

'Crabb  Robinson  alkides  to  Manning  three  or  four  times. 
Under  the  date  of  Dec.  SOth^  1807,  when  he  met  Coleridge  and 
Wordsworth  at  Lamb's,  C.  R.  says^  "  Coleridge  was  philosophising 
in  his  rambling  way  to  Monkhouse,  who  listened  attentively — to 
Manning,  who  sometimes  smiled,  as  if  he  thought  Coleridge  had 
no  right  to  metaphysicise  on  chemistry  without  any  knowledge  of 
the  subject." ' 

Some  of  the  pleasantest  associations  that  Canon  Ainger 
had  with  Elia  were  the  festive  little  journeys  that  he  made  in 
connection  with  his  work.  One  of  these  was  to  Woodbridge, 
in  Suffolk,  whither  he  went  to  gather  information  about  LamVs 
friend,  Bernard  Barton.  And  Mr.  Loder  of  that  town  has 
kept  his  first  impressions  of  him  when  he  came  tliere  on  this 
occasion. 

'  BuBKiTT  House, 
'WooDBRmGE,  Jan.  3,  1905. 

' .  .  .  I  had  the  very  great  pleasure  of  coming  in  contact  with 
Canon  Ainger  a  few  years  ago  when  he  was  editing  Lamb's 
Letters  and  being  desirous  of  learning  some  particulars  of  Lamb's 
friend  and  correspondent  Barton,  the  Quaker  poet,  who  resided 
here  the  major  portion  of  his  life. 

'  I  fell  in  love  with  him  "  on  sight."  He  walked  in,  telling  me 
that  som  friend  in  London  had  mentioned  my  name  as  a  likely 
person  to  give  him  information  about  Barton,  adding  "that  he 
always  made  it  a  point  when  he  was  writing  about  any  one  to 
verify  for  himself  by  personally  visiting  the  place  where  such 
person  resided." — (0  si  sic  omnes — we  should  have  fewer  lies  in 
print.) 

'  I  of  course  gladly  volunteered  to  act  as  cicerone,  so  I  showed 
him  the  Bank  where  Barton  worked,  the  house  where  he  resided, 
and  the  burying-ground  in  the  quiet  Quaker  Meeting  House 
Yard  where  he  was  laid. 

'  I  found  him  the  most  perfect  gentleman,  a  great  scholar,  with 
the  face  of  a  saint. 

'Now  for  a  somewhat  curious  little  episode.  Some  while  after 
his  visit,  in  reading  over  again  Lamb's  correspondence  with 
Barton,  I  found  reference  to  a  letter  from  the  Revd.  J.  Mitford 


232         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  ATNGER 

(Editor,  as  you  know,  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  many  years), 
telling  Barton  he  was  wishing  to  get  a  quantity  of  china,  and 
asking  Barton  if  he  could  recommend  him  any  one  who  could 
assist  him  in  the  matter.  Barton  pounced  immediately  on  Lamb, 
and  for  his  reply  I  refer  you  to  Letter  251  (Edn.  1888).^ 

'  At  Mitford's  death  his  effects  were  all  sold — and  a  friend  of 
mine  bought  a  lot  of  the  china — and,  I  remember,  a  jardiniere  some 
30  inches  high  which  he  had  failed  to  dispose  of.  I  rushed  over 
and  secured,  and  sent  it  to  the  Canon  with  my  etc.,  etc.  He  was 
hugely  pleased,  and  in  return  he  sent  me  a  volume  of  Lamb's 
Essays,  beautifully  bound  in  morocco,' 

But  his  favourite  trips  were  to  Lamb's  own  country — to 
"  Blakesmoor  ■"  (really  Blakesware)  in  the  village  of  Widford, 
to  the  cottage,  near  by,  of  "  Alice  W. "  and  of  "  Rosamund 
Gray"  —  and  to  Mackery  End  in  Hertfordshire.  He  has 
himself  described  the  first  of  these  expeditions  in  his  charming 
paper — "  How  I  traced  Charles  Lamb  in  Hertfordshire." 

'  It  was  a  lovely  day,'  he  wrote,  '  in  June  or  July,  that  we 
arrived  in  Ware,  and,  having  ordered  dinner  on  our  return  at  the 
inn,  chartered  a  conveyance  and  drove  through  the  rural  Hertford- 
shire landscape,  so  sweetly  and  characteristically  English,  and 
were  deposited  at  the  gate  of  Widford  rectory.'  Later  they 
were  guided  to  'Lamb's  Blakesmoor' — happily  guided,  for  'old 
roads  have  been  diverted,  and  old  landmarks  removed,  so  that  the 
site  of  the  old  house,  now  marked  by  a  young  plantation,  would 
have  escaped  our  search.  But  now  that  it  was  pointed  out,  we 
could  still  trace  by  the  undulations  in  the  meadow  behind  that 
site  where  the  "ample  pleasure-garden"  once  "rose  backward 
from  the  house  in  triple  terraces,"  and  yet  further  back,  that 
"firry  wilderness,  haunt  of  the  squirrel  and  the  day-long  mur- 
muring pigeon."  ' 

^  "If  Mr.  Mitford  will  send  me  a  full  and  circumstantial  description  of  his 
desired  vases,  I  will  transmit  the  same  to  a  gentleman  resident  at  Canton,  whom 
I  think  I  have  interest  enough  in  to  take  the  proper  care  for  their  execution. 
But  Mr.  M.  must  have  patience.  China  is  a  great  way  off,  further  perhaps  than 
he  thinks  ;  and  his  next  year's  roses  must  be  content  to  wither  in  a  Wedgewood 
pot."  Ainger's  Note  upon  this  passage  in  his  last  edition  of  Lamb's  Letters 
(1904)  runs:  'One  of  Mr.  Mitford's  vases,  which  were  actually  made  in  China 
and  sent  home,  is  now,  through  the  friendly  offices  of  Mr.  John  Loder  of  Wood- 
bridge,  in  the  Editor's  possession.'  Lamb's  Letters,  Macmillan,  1904,  vol.  ii. 
(Notes),  p.  343. 


AINGER  AND   CHARLES  LAMB     233 

And  the  writer  tells  us  how  he  found  more  than  the  site  of 
the  old  mansion,  which  enchanted  Elia's  childhood. 

'  I  wished,  if  possible/  he  says,  'to  find  the  actual  name,  if 
nothing  else,  of  the  "  Anna,"  of  the  sonnets,  the  "  Alice  "  of  the 
Essays  .  .  .  the  fair-haired  maid  whom  he  had  loved  in  these 
youthful  days — loved  but  failed  to  win.' 

And  luck  or  Elia''s  kindly  spirit  befriended  him.  He  had 
an  introduction  to  the  rector's  family.  "  I  think  Mr.  Ainger 
might  like  to  see  Mrs.  Tween,"  said  one  of  them — and  it  was 
explained  that  Mrs.  Tween  was  an  old  lady  who  had  known 
Charles  Lamb  in  her  youth.  She  lived  close  by  in  a  house  in  the 
village  street  of  Widford, '  an  old-fashioned  farmhouse-looking 
abode/  to  which  Ainger  was  forthwith  taken.  He  '  passed 
through  the  homely  garden '  full  of  '  stocks  and  sweet-william 
and  mignonette/  and  found  himself  in  the  lady's  presence. 

^  'Our  guide  from  the  rectory  soon  struck  a  responsive  chord 
by  telling  that  Mr,  Ainger  was  connected  with  the  Temple 
Church.  From  the  moment  that  the  word  Temple  was  pronounced, 
the  ice  was  broken,  and  "  indifference  was  no  more."  Mrs.  Tween 
was  herself,  she  said,  a  native  of  the  Temple,  and  it  was  thei'e 
that  her  family's  friendship  with  the  Lainbs  had  been  cemented. 
"Might  I  ask,"  I  interrupted,  "what  was  his  name.^"  "Randal 
Norris."  My  friend  and  myself  looked  at  one  another,  "like 
bold  Cortez  and  his  men,"  in  a  wild  surmise.  .  .  .  The  whole 
pathetic  story  of  the  Lamb  family  and  their  great  sorrow  came 
flooding  on  my  memory.  And  that  saddest  of  sad  letters  sent  by 
Charles  to  his  school-friend,  Coleridge,  after  the  fatal  day  .  .  . 
irresistibly  prompted  the  quotation  I  uttered.  "  Mr.  Norris  has 
been  as  a  father  to  me ;  Mrs.  Norris  as  a  mother"  ;  and  as  I  spoke 
the  words  I  saw  Mrs.  Tween's  eyes  fill  with  tears,  and  I  felt  that 
we  were  no  longer  strangers.' 

For  this  was,  indeed,  the  daughter  of  that  Randal  Norris, 
the  Librarian  and  Sub-Treasurer  of  the  Temple,  the  staunch 
friend  of  the  Lamb  family,  the  last  person  to  die  who  had 
still  called  Elia  '  Charley ' ;  and  to  her,  Jane  Norris,  after- 
wards Jane  Tween,  was  addressed  the  last  letter  of  Mary 
LamVs  that  we  possess. 


234        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

But  the  end  of  discoveries  was  not  yet. 

'Could  Mrs.  Tween  tell  me  anything  about  the  fair-haired 
maid?  Did  she  actually  live  in  Widford,  and  what  was  her 
name  ?  Yes,  she  lived  very  near  Blakesware,  and  cottages  stood 
on  the  site  of  her  dwelling.  .  .  .  And  her  name  }  "Oh  !  her  name 
was  Nancy  Simmons."  "  Nancy/'  I  cried,  for  I  felt  I  was  losing 
the  one  fact  I  had  ascertained.  "  I  had  thought  it  was  Ann." 
"  Certainly,"  replied  my  informant — "  Ann,  but  she  was  always 
called  Nancy."  Ann  Simmons,  then,  had  been  the  Anna,  the 
Alice  with  the  watchet  eyes  and  the  '^  yellow  Hertfordshire  hair." 
But  of  her  and  her  fortunes  Mrs.  Tween  had  little  or  nothing 
else  to  tell.' 

This  visit  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  between  Ainger 
and  Mrs.  Tween.  She  grew  to  love  Ainger  and  to  look  upon 
him  as  a  link  with  old  days  and  with  her  home  at  the  Temple. 
It  was  her  relics  of  Charles  Lamb  that  afterwards  became  his 
— '  a  little  plaster  head  of  Samuel  Salt '  among  them — and  to 
her  he  liked  to  take  his  friends  in  Elia,  when  he  made  his 
holiday  journeys.  Among  these  friends  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell 
ranked  first,  and  the  notes  in  which  Ainger  planned  these 
jaunts  to  Hertfordshire  make  no  unfitting  epilogue  to  a 
chapter  on  his  editorial  work. 

*  2  Upper  Terrace, 
'  Hampstead,  Friday,  May  \^th,  1888. 

'  My  dear  Campbell  (says  the  first), — I  should  like  nothing 
better  than  such  a  "frisk"  (as  Samuel  Johnson  called  it)  as  you 
propose.  But  I  think  Thirsday  of  next  week  would  be  the  only 
day  that  I  could  manage  it.     What  say  you  to  a  ride  by  train  to 

Ware,  and  then  take  on  a  gig  (thoroughly  respectable),  or  other 
conveyance  to  Widford  and  Blakesware — or,  if  you  prefer  it,  to 

Wheathampstead,  walking  on  to  Mackery  End,  and  so  home  by 

Hai-penden  or  Hatfield.     I  am   equally  ready  for  either  outing. 

For  further  particulars,  see  ''Small  Bills." — Yours  always, 

'  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  2  Upper  Terrace, 
Hampstead,  Satwday,  May  Idth. 

'  Mv  dear  Campbell, — Yours  just  received.    Let  us  say  Thursday, 
and  I  will  arrange  details  of  tour.     Widford  and  Blakesware  shall 


AINGER  AND  CHARLES  LAMB     235 

be  our  goal,  and  I  will  communicate  with  Mr.  Lockwood,  the 
homely  Vicar  of  Widford,  as  to  seeing  church  and  all  else — and 
we  will  call  on  old  Mrs.  Tween.  Our  route  is  to  Ware  by 
Great  Eastern.  I  will  write  in  due  course,  and  enclose  list  of 
trains,  etc. 

'  I  have  lost  my  voice — through  sudden  changes  of  weather ; 
bad  for  to-morrow — but  I  shall  speak  "as  I  was  wont  to  speak,"  I 
hope,  long  before  Thursday. — Ever  youi's,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  2  Upper  Terrace, 
*  Hampstead,  Monday,  May  21st,  1888. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — I  am  venturing  to  change  our  pro- 
gramme for  Thursday.  I  have  this  morning  from  Mr.  Lockwood 
of  Widford  an  earnest  entreaty  to  us  to  postpone  our  visit  there 
for  another  week,  as  he  will  be  away  from  home,  and  his  rectory 
is  in  the  miseries  of  a  spring  cleaning.  He  thinks  the  Tweens 
are  also  vernally  cleaning  themselves. 

'  I  am  therefore  going  to  take  you  to  Mackery  End  instead.  .  .  . 
We  get  to  Wheathampstead  by  12.40,  in  time  for  some  bread  and 
cheese  and  beer  at  the  village  inn,  and  then  Ave  go  on  to  Mackery 
End ;  and  from  there  I  think  we  will  walk  to  Harpenden,  have 
some  tea  there,  and  return  in  rude  health  to  London  by  dinner 
time.     How  say  you  ? — Yours  always,  Alfred  Ainger. 

'  But  we  will  do  Widford  another  day  ! ' 

We  are  tempted  to  insert  at  this  point  a  letter  from  old 
Mrs.  Tween,  because,  though  its  date  is  two  years  later,  it 
finds  its  natural  place  here.  It  was  written  after  a  sermon 
preached  in  Widford  Parish  Church  on  Charles  Lamb  by  Canon 
Ainger,  and  seems  to  belong  by  right  to  the  memories  of 
visits  to  Blakesmoor  : — 

*  GoDDARD  House, 
'  Widford,  8th  November  1890. 

'  My  dear  Friend,  Rev.  Canon  Ainger, — Excuse  my  troubling 
you  with  a  few  words  of  thanks,  and  to  acknowledge  the  receipt 
of  the  Daijs  of  Old,  which  I  received  this  day  by  post  at  8  a.m. 
It  has  given  me  great  pleasure,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  rejoice 
with  me  that  I  hear  from  all  parties  that  old,  middle-aged,  and 
ymmg,  the  whole  congregation,  were  unanimously  gratified  with  all 
they  heard  from  you,  and  not  only  them,  but  the  family  at  the 


236         LIFE   OF  ALFRED   AINGER 

New  Blakesware  Mansion  too.  You  are,  and  I  hope  will  ever  be, 
a  great  favourite  there. 

'  I  fear  I  have  trespassed  on  too  much  of  your  time,  but  I  hope 
the  report  of  the  proceedings  will  be  as  gratifying  to  you  as  to  me. 

'  With  kindest  regards  to  all  your  family  circle,  I  am,  my  dear 
friend,  your  truly  obliged,  Jane  Tween.' 


CHAPTER    XIV 

CORRESPONDENCE    ABOUT    CHARLES    LAMB 

Canon  Aingeu's  correspondence  during  the  seven  years  that 

we   have  been  reviewing   is  full  of  minutiae  about  Charles 

Lamb.     We  have  chosen  a  few  of  the  letters  that  do  not  seem 

over-technical  as  a  record  of  the  details  of  his  work.     They 

are  addressed  to  Mr,  Dykes  Campbell,  and  need  no  further 

introduction  : — 

'  2  Upper  Terrace, 

'  Hampstead,  Sept.  27,  1886. 

'  My  dear  Mr.  Campbell, — Thanks  for  your  kind  note.  I  saw 
Mr.  Thomas  Bain  yesterday — he  was  down  here  spending  the 
day — and  I  learned  from  him  that  you  have  seen  the  treasure  with 
the  portrait  of  Lamb,  and  have  heard  of  my  delight  at  discovering, 
just  in  the  nick  of  time,  the  book  I  was  in  seai'ch  of — mentioned 
in  Lamb's  letter  to  Cottle.  It  was  a  curious  coincidence  indeed, 
and  I  am  preparing  a  little  paper  for  the  Atheyiceum,  telling  the 
story  of  the  discovery. ^  Tedder,  the  Librarian  of  the  Athenaeum 
Club,  told  me  that  Bain  had  something  to  show  me,  and  I  went 

^  Canon  Ainger  has  told  the  story  fully  in  his  Notes  to  Charles  Lamb's  Letters 
(Macmillan,  1904,  vol.  ii.  p.  325) : — 

'  This  letter  to  Lamb's  old  friend,  Joseph  Cottle,  publisher  and  poet  of  Bristol, 
has,  I  venture  to  think,  an  interesting  history  attached  to  it.  This  and  the 
following  two  letters  were  first  printed  by  Cottle  in  his  Early  Recollections  of 
Coleridge,  published  in  1837.  Cottle  gave  the  date  of  the  first  two  correctly 
(1819),  but  by  some  oversight  dated  the  last  of  the  three  1829.  Recent  editors 
have  made  the  error  complete  by  dating  them  all  1829.  Accordingly,  in  the 
autumn  of  1886,  when  engaged  in  arranging  the  letters  for  the  present  edition, 
I  was  perplexed  by  this  confusion  of  dates,  and  could  discover  no  internal 
evidence  in  the  letters  themselves  to  resolve  my  doubts.  A  recent  editor  of 
Lamb's  Correspondence  had  confidently  announced  that  the  Collection  of 
Likenesses  of  British  Bards  was  a  certain  work  called  Effigies  Poeticae,  being 
a  set  of  portraits  of  distinguished  English  poets,  with  short  notices  of  their  lives 
and  works,  which  was  not  in  fact  issued  till  the  year  1824.  This  work  (the 
letterpress  of  which,  issued  anonymously,  was  by  Barry  Cornwall)  only  included 
poets  already  deceased,  and  therefore  did  not  contain  any  portrait  or  notice  of 
Joseph  Cottle.     When  I  had  given  up  hope  of  finding  any  clue  to  the  mystery, 

237 


238        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

ovei*  at  once  and  found  the  very  thing  I  had  been  in  search  of  for 
a  month  past.  I  have  since  got  other  important  particulars  which 
connect  the  book,  beyond  all  question,  with  Lamb.     But  what 

a X.  must  be   to  go  and  assert,  as  a  fact  that  he  knew  for 

certain,  that  Lamb  wanted  the  portrait  for  Procter's  Effigies 
Poeticx ! 

'  By  the  way,  could  you  find  out  for  me  the  precise  date  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Procter's  marriage .''  I  don't  want  it  out  of  idle 
curiosity,  but  because  the  date  of  two  letters  of  Lamb's  hang  upon 
it.  I  am  getting  on  fast  now  with  the  arrangement  of  the  letters, 
but  it  is  difficult  work — in  which  I  do  not  receive  much  help  from 
my  predecessors, — Yours  always  sincerely,  Alfred  Ainger,' 

'  Dec.  nth,  1886. 
' .  .  .  I,  too,  have  to  report  Treasure  Trove.  Would  you  be 
surprised  to  hear  that  I  have  at  this  moment  in  my  possession 
the  MSS.  of  all  Lamb's  letters  to  Manning,  and  at  least  ttvo  that 
have  never  been  printed,  and  are  full  of  interest,  one  of  the  year 
1834,  the  last  year  of  Lamb's  life  ?  I  will  tell  you  more  when  we 
meet. — Yours  always,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  Dec.  l^th,  1886. 
'  1  have  a  long  engagement  to  go  into  Hertfordshire  to-morrow 
for  a  night,  to  preach  for  the  Rector  of  Widford.    I  must  not  run 

the  actual  volume  indicated  by  Lamb  came  to  light.  It  proved  to  be  a  copy 
of  Byron's  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,  profusely  illustrated  with 
engravings  and  drawings  of  the  various  poets  and  other  literary  characters 
occurring  in  the  famous  satire.  My  attention  was  called  to  the  copy  by  its 
containing  as  its  solitary  water-colour  drawing  a  hitherto  unknown  portrait 
of  Charles  Lamb,  by  Mr.  Joseph,  A.R.  A.  :  but  on  examining  the  book  further, 
I  found  that  it  contained  also  a  pencil-drawing  of  Joseph  Cottle,  evidently  copied 
from  a  miniature.  The  date  of  the  compilation,  as  given  on  a  special  title-page, 
was  1819,  and  the  person  by  whom  it  was  compiled,  one  William  Evans.  By 
inquiring  from  the  latest  possessor  of  the  volume,  I  discovered  that  this  Mr.  Evans 
was  Lamb's  old  friend  of  that  name,  a  colleague  in  the  India  House,  to  whom 
Lamb  owed  his  first  introduction  to  Talfourd.  Here,  then,  was  beyond  doubt 
the  "particular  friend  "  who  was  making  a  selection  of  the  "  Likenesses  of  Living 
Bards."  That  Lamb  was  perfectly  well  aware  of  the  use  Mr.  Evans  proposed 
to  make  of  the  portraits  in  question  we  cannot  doubt ;  and  we  can  imagine  with 
what  characteristic  equanimity  he  was  allowing  his  own  portrait  to  appear  in 
illustration  of  lines  by  Byron  quite  as  scornful  as  those  in  which  poor  Cottle  was 
described.  As  Joseph  Cottle,  however,  might  not  have  received  the  intelligence 
with  the  same  philosophic  calm.  Lamb  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  inform  his 
old  friend  of  the  precise  destination  of  his  portrait.  Since  I  made  known  these 
facts  in  the  columns  of  the  Athenaum,  Mr.  Evans's  volume  has  passed  into  the 
keeping  of  the  British  Museum.' 


ABOUT  CHARLES  LAMB  239 

any  risks.  You  will  not  need  my  assurance  that  I  did  not  lightly 
break  an  engagement,  the  effect  of  which  was  not  only  to  deprive 
me  of  much  pleasant  converse  with  you  and  Mrs.  Campbell — but 
to  deprive  me  also  of  Mrs.  Procter  in  thejlesh,  and  her  stepfather, 
Basil  Montagu,  in  the  sj)i?-it  (or  rather  in  the  Protest  against  Spirit !) 
Please  tell  Mrs.  Procter  this.  When  may  I  come  and  make  it 
up — Friday  ?  or  Monday  ? — Yours,  deeply  grieving, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  April  Uth,  1887. 

' .  .  .  But  I  have  another  Coleridgian  Cinix  for  you.  In  Lamb's 
Latin  letter  to  Coleridge  of  October  9,  1802,  dealing  chiefly  with 
Coleridge's  then  recent  contributions  to  the  Morni7ig  Post,  there 
occurs  a  sentence  of  which  the  following  is  as  near  a  translation 
as  is  possible,  without  understanding  the  allusions  in  it.  The 
*'  Ludus  "  referred  to  may  be  one  of  many  things,  for  it  has  several 
meanings  in  Latin.  At  present  I  think  it  might  mean  something 
like  "  jeu  d'esprit."     If  so,  we  read  as  follows: — 

'"The  American  Ludus  (jeu  d'espi-it)  of  which  you  prattle  so 
much,  Coleridge,  I  pass  by — as  utterly  abhorrent  from  a  'jeu 
d'esprit '  (as  such  things  go).  For  tell  me,  what  '  spree '  is  there 
in  wickedly  alienating  from  us,  for  the  sake  of  a  joke,  the  good- 
will of  the  whole  Columbian  nation  ?  I  ask  for  subject  matter  for 
a  '  bit  of  fun '  ;  and  you  offer  me  '  bloody  wars  ' !  "  i 

'  You  see,  this  paraphrase  may  be  very  wide  of  the  mark,  for 
all  depends  upon  what  Lamb  meant  by  the  Ludus,  The  most 
probable  interpretation  seems  to  me  to  be  that  Lamb,  who  wrote 
occasionally  epigrams  and  such  trifles  for  the  Post,  had  asked 
Coleridge  to  suggest  him  some  subjects,  and  that  the  latter  had 
rather  flippantly  suggested  the  relations  of  England  and  America, 
which  were  then  (as  you  know)  once  more  becoming  strained,  in 
consequence  of  the  Anglo-French  troubles.  Have  you,  in  the 
"  great  heap  of  your  knowledge  "  (de  Coleridgio  et  multis  aliis), 
any  probable  or  possible  explanations  of  the  passage  .'' 

1  Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas  has  furnished  us  with  the  explanation  in  his  edition  of 
LaniF s  Letters  (Letter  xcvii.  vol.  i.  p.  249).  He  gives  us  Mr.  Stephen  Gwynn's 
translation  of  the  Latin  paragraph  in  question,  'As  for  your  Ludus  (Lloyd),' 
it  runs,  'whom  you  talk  of  as  an  "American,"  I  pass  him  by  as  no  sportsman 
(as  sport  goes) :  what  kind  of  sport  is  it,  to  alienate  utterly  the  good  will  of  the 
whole  Columbian  people,  our  own  kin,  sprung  of  the  same  stock,  for  the  sake 
of  one  Ludd  (Lloyd)?     I  seek  the  material  for  diversion  :  you  heap  on  war.' 

To  which  Mr.  Lucas  adds  this  note  : — 

'  Ludus  is  Lloyd.  Lamb  means  by  "  American  "  what  we  should  mean  by 
pro-American.'     Compare  Lady  Sarah  Lennox  [Letters,  i.  277). 


240         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

'  You  will  see  from  this  letter  of  Lamb's  how  I  was  set  inquiring 
as  to  the  identity  of  Wordsworth  with  "  Edmund."  ^  I  have  had 
great  trouble  with  this  letter,  and  two  of  the  best  Latinists  con- 
nected with  Shrewsbury  School  have  been  helping  me.  All  the 
other  allusions  in  the  letter  are  clear  enough,  including  a  charming 
one  to  little  Derwent  Coleridge. 

'  If  you  will  kindly  answer  this,  please  address  to  the  Athenaeum 
Club  till  after  Wednesday. — Yours  always,  Alfred  Ainger. 

^As  to  the  change  from  "Edmund"  to  the  "Lady"— this 
even  the  discreet  knight  has  not  yet  fathomed.  Have  you  any 
theories  ? ' 

'Callander  House, 

'Clifton,  July  18,  1887. 

'My  dear  Campbell, — You  are  the  "Inexhaustible  Bottle"  of 
the  conjurer,  and  can  produce  any  wine  or  vintage  for  which  the 
company  call.  Thank  you  sincerely  for  so  promptly  sending  the 
1815  Wordsworth,  from  which  I  have  just  now  constructed  a 
tolerably  complete  note  (I  trust)  on  two  of  Lamb's  letters  to  the 
Poet.     It  is  a  most  interesting  edition  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  .  .  . 

'When  do  you  actually  leave  town  .^  You  will  let  me  know 
your  address.  I  shall  soon,  I  hope,  have  some  more  proofs  for 
you  (not,  I  fear,  proofs  o^ friendship). — Ever  yours, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 


'Callander  House, 
'  Clifton,  Bristol,  Friday,  Sept.  2,  1887. 

'  Mv  dear  Campbell, — All  your  strictures  and  suggestions  were 
most  acceptable.  Especially  was  I  grateful  for  pointing  out  that 
a  note  on  the  first  occurrence  of  the  name  of  Talfourd  would  be 
acceptable,  and  I  have  amended  the  defect.  Your  latest  note 
about  the  "  Flocci-nauci,"  2  etc.,  etc.,  is  very  curious.     I  knew  that 

1  In  the  ode  on  'Dejection'  where  Wordsworth  is  invoked  as  'Edmund,' a 
mode  of  address  which  was  changed  in  later  editions  to  '  Lady.' 

2  Letter    xx.,    Lamb's   Letters,   vol.    i.    p.    62.     'Well    may   the    "ragged 
oUowers  of  the  Nine"  set  up  for  flocci-nauci-what-do-you-call-'em-ists.'     In  his 

note  to  this  letter,  vol.  i.  p.  318,  Ainger  says:  ' Flocci-natici-ivhat-do-yoii-call- 
em-ists  may  be  deemed  worthy  of  a  note.  Flocci,  nauci  is  the  beginning  of  a 
rule  in  the  old  Latin  grammars,  containing  a  list  of  words  signifying  of  no 
account,  floccus  being  a  lock  of  wool  and  naucus  a  trifle.  Lamb  was  recalling 
a  sentence  in  one  of  Shenstone's  letters  :  "I  loved  him  for  nothing  so  much  as 
his  flocci-nauci-nihili-pili-fication  of  money."' 


ABOUT  CHARLES   LAMB  241 

Lamb  was  a  great  reader  of  Shenstone  and  it  was  from  that  quarter 
it  came,  I  have  no  doubt.  I  have  only  this  day  had  the  pleasure  of 
giving  the  stanza  fi'om  that  poet  from  which  Lamb  fabricated  his 
exquisite,  "  If  he  bring  but  a  relict  away."  ^  .  .   . 

'A  friendly  correspondent  from  the  India  Office  sends  me  a 
transcript  from  the  old  E.  I.  House  Records  of  the  Minute  fixing 
and  awarding  Lamb's  pension — Tuesday  29th  of  March  1825. 
Lamb's  salary  at  the  time  waSj  it  appears,  ,£730. 

'  By  the  way,  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  paragraph  in  the 
Athenceum,  p.  140,  about  a  second  performance  of  ''Mr.  H."  at 
the  Lyceum,  playbill  written  by  Lamb.  Surely  the  Lyceum  was 
not  built  till  after  Lamb's  day,  was  it.''  I  expect  it  will  turn  out 
to  be  the  performance  got  up  by  Charles  Mathews,  junior,  when 
a  very  young  man.'  ^ 

'The  AxHENiEUM  Club,  Tuesday  Afternoon,  Nov.  29. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — My  best  thanks  for  the  fragment  of  the 
Quarterly  containing  Lamb's  Wordsworth  Paper,  which  I  am  very 
glad  indeed  to  have.  I  found  a  curious  thing.  The  paper  that 
follows  Lamb's  is  a  Review  of  Schlegel's  Lectures  on  Dramatic 
Literature.  The  Reviewer  summarises  Schlegel's  remarks  on  the 
various  dramatic  authors  of  the  world.  Among  these  occurs 
Euripides,  and  the  Reviewer  points  out  hoAv  Euripides  sacrificed 
everything  to  the  drawing  tears  from  the  eyes  of  his  audience. 
There  is  the  Sacerdos  Comniiserationis  we  have  been  looking  for — 
there,  beyond  all  doubt,  while  Lamb  pored  over  these  pages,  he 
found  the  passage  and  remembered  it.^     I  have  just  returned  to 

^  Letter  cccxxxiii.,  Lamb's  Letters,  Macmillan,  vol.  ii.  p.  172.  'She'd 
make  a  good  match  for  any  body  (by  she,  I  mean  the  widow) — 

'  If  he  bring  but  a  relict  away, 
He  is  happy,  nor  heard  to  complain.' — Shenstone. 

Note  to  this  letter,  p.  352  :  See  Shenstone,  Pastoral  Ballad,  '  "Absence  "' — 

'  "  The  pilgrim  that  journeys  all  day 
To  visit  some  far  distant  shrine, 
If  he  bear  but  a  relique  away 
Is  happy,  nor  heard  to  repine."  ' 

-  '  It  was  played  at  an  amateur  performance  by  the  late  C.  J.  Mathews  in 
1822,  as  recorded  in  the  actor's  memoirs.' — Ainger's  note  on  'Mr.  H.,'  PoemSy 
Plays,  and  Essays.     Macmillan,  1895. 

2  This  may  perhaps  refer  to  two  letters  written  by  Lamb  in  his  own  particular 
Latin.     The  first  (Letter  CCCCXXVII.,  Lavib's  Letters,  Macmillan,  vol.  ii.  p.  281) 

Q. 


242         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

the  printers  the  corrected  first  pi-oofs  of  my  Introduction.  When 
I  get  the  revise  I  will  send  it  you,  that  you  may '^^  correct  the 
more  obvious  blunders!"  as  Thompson  said  of  Whewell. — Ever 
yourSj  Alfred  Ainger. 

'  I  have  just  read  the  Coleorton  Letters  (lent  me  by  George 
Macmillan),  most  interesting.  How  one  loves  Wordsworth  and  his 
sister  more  and  more  ! ' 


'2  Upper  Terrace, 
'  Hampstead,  Tuesday,  Dec.  13,  1887. 

'  My  dear  Campbell. — I  must  send  you  a  few  lines  to  thank  you 
for  your  kind  letter.  All  your  suggestions  in  the  matter  of 
correction  were  worthy  of  notice,  and  I  have  polished  several  of 
my  sentences  in  accordance  therewith.  And  now  the  proofs  are 
out  of  my  hands  (Index  alone  excepted)  and  I  await  calmly  the 
issue.  I  suppose  the  volume  can't  be  ready  before  the  end  of 
January,  if  so  soon,  but  I  quite  hope  they  will  be  in  time  to  find 
you  still  in  the  same  mind  about  the  Roast  Pig  and  Hare  (Roasted, 
if  you  love  me,  not  jugged.  It  tastes  so  " crips,"  ^  the  former 
way  !)  to  which  I  look  forward  with  a  thankful  longing.  It  is  a 
beautiful  and  a  friendly  thought  of  yours.  .  .   . 

'  I  also  met  poor  Charles  Kent  yesterday  at  the  Athenaeum.  No 
editorial  jealousy  about  him !     Nothing  but  genuine  and  kindly 

is  to  Bernard  Barton,  and  commends  to  his  notice  certain  proverbs  to  '  recall  you 
to  the  recovery  of  my  lost  Latinity.'     Among  these  is  the  following  : 

'  Tom,  Tom  of  Islington,  married  a  wife  on  Sunday.  He  brought  her  home 
on  Monday ;  Bought  a  stick  on  Tuesday ;  Beat  her  well  on  Wednesday ;  Sick 
was  she  on  Thursday ;  Dead  was  she  on  Friday ;  Glad  was  Tom  on  Saturday 
night,  to  bury  his  wife  on  Sunday.' 

We  use  Ainger's  translation  in  this  and  in  the  second  letter  (Letter  ccccxxix., 
p.  282),  which  is  to  the  Rev.  H.  F.  Cary :  '.  .  .  We  must  sometimes  exchange 
He  !  He  !  He  !  for  Heu  !  Heu  !  Heu  !  That  the  Tragic  Muse  is  not  wholly 
repugnant  to  me,  witness  this  song  of  Disaster,  originally  written  by  some 
unknown  author  in  the  vernacular,  but  lately  turned  by  me  into  Latin — I  mean, 
"Tom  of  Islington."  Do  you  take?  .  .  .  And  finally  Tom  is  filled  with  joy 
that  on  the  following  day  (Sunday,  to  wit)  his  spouse  must  be  carried  out  to 
burial.     Lo  !  a  domestic  iliad  !  a  cycle  of  calamity  !  a  seven  days'  tragedy  ! 

'  Go  now  and  compare  your  vaunted  Euripides  with  griefs  like  these  !  Such 
a  death  of  wives  as  this  !  Where  is  your  Alcestis  now  ?  your  Hecuba  ?  your 
other  Dolorous  Heroines  of  Antiquity  ? ' 

'  'And  do  it  nice  and  crips  (that's  the  cook's  word).'— Letter  from  Lamb  to 
Dodwell,  October  7,  1827. 


ABOUT  CHARLES  LAMB  243 

interest  in  everything  I  have  done  for  Lamb  since  his  time.     He 
is  a  Lamb  editor  I  really  respect  and  feel  affection  for. 

'  Lathbury  has  sent  me  the  Coleorton  Letters.  How  interesting 
they  are  !  I  have  just  been  writing  the  opening  pages  of  a  review 
of  them.  Wordsworth  and  Dorothy  are  exquisite  in  their  simple 
pleasures,  and  happiness  in  one  another. — Yours  always, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

*2  Uppek  Terrace, 
'Hampstead,  Friday,  May  25,  1888. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — Am  I,  or  am  I  not,  on  the  brink  of  a 
discovery  ?  You  remember  that  letter  of  Lamb's  to  Taylor  the 
Publisher  (July  30,  1821),  in  which  he  tells  the  origin  of  his 
signature  "  Elia."  He  says  that  the  Italian  of  that  name,  in  the 
South  Sea  House  with  him,  was  an  author  as  well  as  a  "Scrivener." 
I  find  in  Allibone  the  following  entry  : — 

'  "  Ellia,  Felix.  Norman  Banditti,  or  the  Fortress  of  Constance  :  a 
Tale.     London,  1799-     2  vols.     12  mo." 

'  Was  this  the  man  ?  The  date  corresponds  precisely,  and  the 
curious  fact  that  Lamb,  after  writing  the  name  Elia,  takes  the 
precaution  to  add  "call  it  Ell-ia,"  looks  as  if  he  remembered 
the  pronunciation  and  had  forgotten  the  spelling ! 

'Some  day  when  you  are  at  the  British  Museum,  it  might  be 
worth  looking  in  the  Catalogue  if  the  name  occurs  in  connection 
with  the  novel  above  mentioned,  or  any  others. 

'  I  hope  you  found  your  way  and  your  train  last  evening  without 
let  and  hindrance.     What  a  day  it  was  ! — Ever  yours, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

Note  by  Mk.  Dykes  Campbell. 

'Neither  book  nor  authoi-'s  name  in  B.  M.  Catalogue.  There 
is  an  Elia — but  he  was  really  Fi-a  Elias  (of  Cortona .'').' 

In  the  spring  of  1888,  the  Letters  were  completed,  and  an 
Elian  revel  seemed  a  fitting  consummation  of  Ainger's  labours. 
His  good  friend  and  colleague,  Dykes  Campbell,  who  had 
helped  him  not  only  with  counsel  but  with  his  own  collection 
of  Lamb's  letters,  proposed  to  give  a  banquet  in  his  honour, 
and  he  and  Ainger  determined  that  the  bill  of  fare  should 
consist  only  of  the  dishes  that  Charles  Lamb  had  mentioned — 


244         LIFE   OF  ALFRED  ATNGER 

with  appropriate  quotations  for  each,  which  Ainger  undertook 
to  find.  The  plan  was  after  his  heart,  and  he  threw  himself 
into  it  with  youthful  fervour — so  much  so,  indeed,  that  the 
menu  as  he  first  composed  it  was  beyond  the  compass  of 
mortal  cook,  and  Mrs.  Campbell  had  to  beg  him  to  curtail  it. 

'2  Upper  Terrace, 
'  Hampsteaii,  Thursday  Evening,  March  15,  1888. 

'  My  dear  Campbell. — You  are  both  of  you  very  good  to  me. 
I  have  amended  the  Bill  of  Fare,  as  suggested,  putting  in  LAMB 
Cutlets,  with  a  motto  that  will,  I  hope,  strike  you  as  ingenious 
when  you  see  it.  I  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  omit  the 
quotation  about  Apple  Dumplings — though  there  will  be  none  in 
the  7nenu — because  it  serves  as  a  motto  for  child-like  and  innocent 
tastes  generally.  Moreover,  when  it  is  complained  that  the 
delicacy  in  question  has  no  place  on  the  Carte,  you  shall  reply 
that  you  could  not  with  any  decency  place  any  guest  in  the 
position  of  refusing  to  take  any,  with  C.'s  remark  staring  them  in 
the  face.  I  have  not  otherwise  altered  the  original  scheme,  and 
am  sending  it  off  to-night  to  George  Craik  to  see  it  carried  out 
for  me.  Alfred  Ainger.' 

MENU. 

29  Albert  Hall  Mansions, 

Tuesday,  March  20,  1888. 

That  enough  is  as  good  as  a  Feast.  Not  a  man,  woman,  or 
child  in  ten  miles  round  Guildhall,  who  really  believes  this  saying. 
The  inventor  of  it  did  not  believe  it  himself.  It  was  made  in 
revenge  by  somebody,  who  was  disappointed  of  a  regale.  It  is  a 
vile  cold  scrag-of-mutton  sophism ;  a  lie  palmed  upon  the  palate 
which  knows  better  things. — Popular  Fallacies. 

CLEAR  SOUP. 
When  I  have  sat,  a  rarus  hospes,  at  rich  men's  tables,  with  the 
savoury  soup.   .  .  . — Grace  before  Meat. 

FISH. 
'  I,  too,  never  eat  but  one  thing  at  dinnei','  was  his  reply — then, 
after  a  pause,  '  reckoning  fish  as  nothing.' — Ellistotiiatia. 

BRAWN, 
Brawn  was  a  noble  thought.     It  is  not  every  common  gullet- 
fancier  that  can  properly  esteem  of  it.     As  Wordsworth  sings  of  a 


ABOUT  CHARLES   LAMB  245 

modest  poet,  '  You  must  love  him  ere  to  you  he  will  seem  worthy 
of  your  love  ' ;  so  Brawn,  you  must  taste  it,  ere  to  you  it  will  seem 
to  have  any  taste  at  all. — Letter  to  Manning. 

The  cool  malignity  of  mustard  and  vinegar. — Letter  to  Manning, 

LAMB  CUTLETS 

(with  green  peas). 

'  Perchance  some  shepherd,  on  Lincolnian  plains, 
In  manners  guileless  as  his  own  sweet  flocks, 
Received  thee  first  amid  the  merry  mocks 
And  arch  allusions  of  his  fellow  swains  ; 

Whate'er  the  fount  whence  thy  beginnings  came, 
No  deed  of  mine  shall  shame  thee,  gentle  name.' 

Lamb's  Sonnet  on  '  The  Family  Name.' 

ROAST  PIG. 
Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole  iniindus  edibilis,  I  will  main- 
tain it  to  be  the  most  delicate — princeps  obsoniorum. — A  Disserta- 
tion upon  Roast  Pig. 

ROAST  CAPON,  WITH  SALAD. 

'Tame  villatic  fowl.' 

She  was  to  sup  oif  a  roast  fowl, — O  joy  to  Barbara  ! 

Barbara  S. 

SWEETS. 

STEWED  FIGS— WINE  JELLY. 
C.  holds  that  a  man  cannot  have  a  pure  mind  who  refuses  apple 
dumplings.     I  am  not  certain  but  he  is  right. — Grace  before  Meat. 

Do  take  another  slice,  Mr.  Billet,  for  you  do  not  get  pudding 
every  day. — Poor  Relations. 

DESSERT. 
Pineapple  is  great.     She  is,  indeed,  almost  too  transcendent — a 
delight,  if  not  sinful,  yet  so  like  to  sinning  that  really  a  tender- 
conscienced    person    would    do    well    to    pause. — Dissertation    on 
Roast  Pig. 

He  ate  walnuts  better  than  any  man  I  know. — Letter  to  Rickman. 

WINES. 
PORT,  SHERRY,  CLARET. 
After  all,  our  instincts  may  be  best.     Wine,  I  am  sure,  good 
mellow  generous  Port,  can  hurt  nobody. — Letter  to  Coleridge. 


246         LIFE  OF   ALFRED  ATNGER 

The  dinner  went  off  with  brilliance,  and  Ainger  brought  a 
little  bust  of  Lamb  that  he  possessed  to  preside  in  the  middle 
of  the  table. 

That  summer  was  enlivened  by  another  kind  of  festivity — 
one  of  those  literary  'frisks'  of  which  Ainger  was  so  fond. 
This  time  it  was  to  Nether  Stowey  and  the  Quantocks,  the 
country  of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  in  their  early  days, 
haunted  also  by  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  who  visited  the 
Wordsworths  at  Alfoxden  in  1797.  The  notes  that  follow 
tell  the  story  of  Ainger's  plans,  made  in  concert  with  Dykes 
Campbell,  who  was  this  time  to  be  his  boon  companion — 
and  what,  indeed,  could  be  fitter  than  that  the  biographers 
of  Coleridge  and  of  Lamb  should  visit  this  region  in  com- 
pany ?  They  were  to  start  from  Bristol,  where  Ainger  was  in 
Residence,  and  whence  the  letters  are  dated. 

'  Richmond  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,  July  18,  1888. 

*  I  am  very  glad  you  are  collecting  information  about  the  Stowey 
neighbourhood.  Failing  "  Kilve's  delightful  shore "  might  not 
Watchet  be  our  head-quarters  ?  According  to  Murray  there  is  a 
comfortable  little  Hotel  there,  and  I  confess  that  a  good  base  of 
operations  is  half  the  battle  in  such  cases. 

'Whatever  we  finally  decide  on,  1  think  we  should  come  to 
terms  with  "mine  Host"  (as  the  country  newspapers  say)  early — 
for  the  Monday  (the  6th)  being  a  Bank  Holiday,  I  fancy  that 
week,  holiday-makers  may  be  much  about.   .  .  .' 

'July  SO. 

'  I  will  have  a  small  hamper  of  wine  packed — two  or  three 
bottles  of  claret — one  of  sherry,  and  perhaps  a  few  extras — to 
keep  us  up  during  our  first  week.  (Fancy  paying  "  Corkage  "  at 
the  Skip  at  Porlock  Weir  !) 

'  Oh  !  that  we  may  have  decent  weather  next  week  !  Hitherto 
it  has  been  "just  redeek-lus."  We  have  been  here  four  wrecks,  and 
I  am  sure  have  not  had  four  days  without  rain — and  that  mostly 
drenching  and  persistent  in  character.  It  made  us  pale  with 
envy  to  hear  of  the  fine  days  at  Hastings. 

* ...  I  can  back  your  story  of  the  "  H  dropping,"  by  one  of  my 
dear  predecessor  in  our  Chapter,  Canon  Sydney  Smith,  who  said  of 


ABOUT  CHARLES  LAMB  247 

a  Quaker's  meeting,  the  stillness  was  so  complete, — "you  might 
have  heard  the  Three-per-cents  fall  an  eighth." — Yours  always, 

'  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'Monday — Go  to  Dunster,  driving  about  15  miles,  where  sleep. 

*  Tuesday — Drive  from  Dunster  to  Porlock  Weir,  about  10  miles. 
Sleep  at  Porlock. 

'  Wednesday — 

'  Thursday — Go  to  Lynton  by  trap  or  Coach.     Sleep  at  Lynton. 

'Friday — Coach  9.30  a.m.  to  Ilfracombe,  thence  to  Bristol,  or 
Coach  at  noon  to  Barnstaple ;  in  either  case,  Bristol  would  be 
reached  at  6.45  p.m.' 

'  Richmond  House, 
'Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  August  8,  1888. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — You  will  see  from  the  enclosed  card  that 
an  equipage  will  be  in  waiting  at  Bridgwater  Station  to  convey 
the  distinguished  Travellers  to  Over  Stowey  on  Thui'sday  after- 
noon. 

*(I  have  ordered,  by  the  way,  the  Times  to  be  posted  to  us  daily 
the  first  week  of  our  tour,  from  my  own  newsagent  at  Hampstead.) 
I  shall  take  my  Murray's  Somersetshire ;  a  Lyrical  Ballads,  and 
other  comforts.  Bring  you,  what  you  think  additionally  useful. 
The  weather  is  at  last  really  splendid  and  the  glass  high  and 
steady,  so  I  cannot  but  be  hopeful  that  we  shall  have  a  "fine 
spell"  in  Somersetshire.   .  .  . 

*  I  shall  write  to-morrow  to  Mrs.  Morgan  and  order  dinner  at 
7  o'clock  at  the  Cottage — some  good  mutton  of  the  country,  and 
fruit  tart ! ' 

The  trip  was  altogether  successful.  They  '  took  their  ease ' 
at  their  cottage ;  they  saw  for  the  first  time  haunts  that  had 
long  been  familiar  to  them.  And  'they  visited  the  place 
where  Wordsworth  read  his  tragedy  to  Coleridge  and  Charles 
Lloyd,  and  voted,  on  Ainger's  motion,  unanimous  approval  of 
Thelwairs  statement  "that  it  was  a  spot  to  make  one  forget 
all  the  jarrings  of  the  world." '  ^ 

Canon  Ainger's  correspondence  about  Lamb  did  not  cease 
with  the  appearance  of  his  book.  'There  is,'  he  wrote  to  one 
of  his  readers,  '  a  great  bond  among  all  lovers  of  Lamb,  more 
than  I  think  is  felt  in  the  case  of  any  other  writer  of  that 

^  Preface  by  Leslie  Stephen  to  Dykes  Campbell's  Lt/e  of  Coleridge. 


248         LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

class ;  and  one  of  the  pleasantest  results  of  my  having  under- 
taken his  life  and  works  has  been  the  communications  it  has 
brought  me  from  fellow-students  like  yourself.''  Between  1888 
and  1892,  he  received  many  letters  containing  emendations 
and  suggestions  that  might  prove  useful  for  fresh  editions. 
And  as  a  few  of  his  answers  to  these  may  be  thought  of  general 
interest,  we  give  them  here  in  order  of  time,  from  the  end  of 
1888,  onwards. 

'  Prospect  House, 
'Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  Dec.  18,  1888. 

' .  .  .  I  am  writing  to to  say  that  I  am  amazed — simply  !  at 

his  criticisms — and  that  the  complaint  he  is  suffering  from  is  not 
colour-blindness  but  total  cataract  of  both  eyes !  Literally,  I 
am  going  to  use  these  words,  and  if  he  likes  to  resent  it,  he  may. 

'  Here  is  a  nice  Christian  Spirit  to  be  displayed  by  a  Dignitary 
of  the  Church  on  the  very  eve  of  Christmas  !  But  there  are 
certain  vermin,  as  my  dear  and  honoured  Predecessor  in  this 
Chapter  used  to  say,  for  whom  the  small  tooth-comb  is  the  only 
remedy. 

'  No  more — for  anything  else  would  be  an  anti-climax. — Yours 
always,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

The  following  letter  needs  the  explanation  which  Mr.  Gosse 
has  kindly  supplied  : — 

'In  1888,'  he  says,  'in  connection  with  a  study  on  Leigh^ 
Hunt  which  I  was  preparing,  I  was  told  by  Robert  Browning  that 
the  famous  letter  in  The  Examiner,  which  described  the  Prince 
Regent  as  a  "fat  Adonis  of  sixty,"  and  for  which  Leigh  Hunt 
was  imprisoned  for  two  years  (1813-15)  in  Surrey  Gaol,  was  really 
written  by  Charles  Lamb,  although  Hunt  took  the  responsibility.^ 
The  curious  thing  was  that  Browning  thought  he  remembered 
that  it  was  Leigh  Hunt  himself  Avho  had  revealed  this  secret  to 
him,  and  he  urged  me  to  divulge  it  to  the  public,  as  the  time 
had  come.  But,  under  the  pressure  of  cross-examination,  the 
evidence  became  vaguer,  and  I  was  prudent  enough  to  state  the 
circumstances  with  reserve.  Even  so,  however,  it  excited  instant 
protest,  and  Ainger,  in  particular,  refused  to  believe  it.  He 
wrote,  as  others  did,  to  the  Athenceiim  on  the  subject,  but  gently, 
in  order  not  to  wound  Browning's  feelings.     Curiously  enough,  it 

^  See  Life  of  Charles  Lamb,  by  E.  V.  Lucas,  vol.  i.  p.  322, 


ABOUT  CHARLES  LAMB  249 

appeared  that  John  Forster  had  long  ago  made  the  same  state- 
ment in  confidence  to  some  one^  and  both  Ainger  and  I  came  at 
last  to  the  conclusion  that  Browning's  memory,  which  in  1888 
was  not  what  it  had  been,  was  somewhat  at  fault,  and  that  what 
he  recollected  was  an  echo  of  this  idea  of  Forster's.' 

'  2  Upper  Terrace,  Hampstead, 
'  Wednesday  morning,  March  13,  1889. 

'Dear  Mr.  Gosse, — When  I  spoke  to  Austin  Dobson  on  Monday 
I  had  already  sent  off  a  "  note  and  query  "  to  the  Alhenmim,  my 
only  object  being  to  get,  if  possible,  at  the  foundation  of  this 
strange  report.  I  perfectly  undei'stood  that  it  did  not  originate 
with  yo«.  Charles  Kent,  whom  I  met  last  week  at  the  Athenaeum, 
was  my  informant;  and  he  told  me,  quite  correctly,  that  the 
story  was  traceable  back  through  Browning  to  John  Forster.  If 
those  two  great  authorities  knew  the  fact,  it  must  certainly  have 
been  known  to  many  besides. 

'Frankly,  I  confess  that  I  think  the  story  incredible.  (1) 
because  Leigh  Hunt  in  his  autobiography  says,  in  terms,  that  he 
was  himself  the  rvriter  of  the  article  (contrasting  his  own  greater 
responsibility  with  that  of  his  brother,  who  was  only  guilty  as 
publisher) ;  and  (2)  because  the  style  of  the  article  is  so  utterly 
unlike  any  style  that  Lamb  ever  wrote  in  his  life.  Turn  to  the 
long  extract  from  the  article  given  in  Hunt's  autobiography  and  I 
feel  sure  you  will  agree  with  me. 

'  I  had  a  hope  (forlorn,  I  admit)  of  "  drawing  "  Browning — but 
if  not,  of  eliciting  confirmation,  or  the  opposite,  from  some  other 
of  Hunt's  surviving  friends. — Yours  very  truly, 

'  Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  Mr.  Dykes  Campbell. 

'  The  Glade,  Branch  Hill, 

'Hampstead,  Nov.  4,  1889. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — Many  thanks — yes  !  my  copy  of  Fitz- 
Gerald's  Crabhe  tallies  closely  with  yours — no  Title  Page — only  a 
Half-Title.  It  has  got  Wordsworth's  Brothers  (on  the  last 
page  of  preface)  corrected  in  the  margin  in  the  old  man's  hand 
to  Borderers. 

'  As  to  Prince  Doricus  I  know  nothing — and  even  have  not  a 
copy  at  hand,  though  it  is  in  the  2»rf  Poetry  for  Children  (com- 
plete work)  by  Shepherd.  I  think  these  child-books  of  Lamb 
never  engaged  my  attention  much.     I  wish  I  could  have  helped 


250         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

you.  There  has  lately  come  into  my  hands  The  FoHunate  Blue- 
Coat  Boy,  the  school  classic  mentioned  by  Lamb  in  his  second 
paper  on  Christ's  Hospital.  It  is  a  queer  book  (a  sort  of  romance 
a  la  Fielding  of  a  "  Blue "  who  marries  a  rich  young  widow), 
and  as  I  have  promised  to  write  something  short  for  a  newspaper  to 
be  published  during  the  Glasgow  University  Bazaar,  I  am  going  to 
make  a  little  paper  out  of  the  odd  little  romance.  It  was  pub- 
lished anonymously  in  1770.  Who  wrote  it.''  I  did,  not  get 
Lloyd's  Poejtis  to  his  Gra7idmamma.  I  bid  up  to  10s.,  but  some 
one  else  wanted  it — and  got  it  for  13s.  or  14s. 

'  In  very  great  haste.  Yours  ever,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

*  Poor gets  it  again  hot  (though  his  book  is  cold  by  this 

time).  In  the  Guardian,  of  all  places.  I  originally  asked  L. 
to  let  me  review  the  book  for  him  (this  was  before  it  appeared). 
I  was  glad  afterwards  that  my  request  was  not  granted.  I  hope 
poor won't  set  this  notice  down  to  my  account.  It  is  a  con- 
temptible review,  but  managed  to  say  that has  no  form  or 

method,  and  all  the  old,  old  truisms.' 

'  Dec.  12,  1889. 

'  I  will  send  you  my  little  paper  on  the  Fortunate  Blue-Coat 
Boy  when  it  appears  next  week  in  the  Bazaar  news  (Glasgow). 
The  publication  is  really  an  advertisement  sheet  (designed  to 
bring  in  money),  but  it  will  contain  each  day,  I  believe,  some 
original  contribution.  Andrew  Lang  begged  off,  at  first,  but 
afterwards  kindly  repented,  and  sent  them  a  poem,  I  understand. 
I  hope  the  poor  lads  will  have  a  great  success,  and  that  they  have 
laid  aside  the  Battering  Ram  and  washed  their  hands.' 

'  RicHBioND  House,  Clifton  Hill, 
'  Bristol,  August  26,  1890. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — Your  Budget  did  indeed  rejoice  me,  and 
you  are  the  true  and  original  Literary  Samaritan,  of  which  all  othei'S 
are  counterfeits.  Last  year  Mrs.  Sandford  ^  wrote  and  told  me  of 
the  Lamb  Letter,  and  undertook  to  try  and  get  me  a  sight  of  it ; 
but  not  hearing  again  on  the  subject,  I  naturally  thought  the  Words- 
worths  did  not  care  that  it  should  be  seen,  and  so  I  put  the 
matter  from  me.     And  so  much  greater  is  now  the  surprise.     It  is  a 

^  A  descendant  of  Tom  Poole's,  the  friend  of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth. 
Mrs.  Sandford  was  the  author  of  Thofiias  Poole  and  his  Friends,  a.  book  much 
loved  by  Canon  Ainger. 


ABOUT  CHARLES  LAMB  251 

marvellously  funny  lettex'.  I  read  it  (must  I  confess  the  truth  ?) 
before  I  had  read  more  than  a  few  lines  of  yours — and  as  I  read 
on  and  on^  I  said  to  myself,  "Hullo!  there's  something  wrong 
somewhere — this  is  Geoi'ge  Dyer,  not  George  Burnett,"  It  was 
perhaps  natural  of  Gordon  Wordsworth  and  Mrs.  Sandford  to 
make  the  mistake^  for  they  don't  know  the  true  and  veritable 
"  George  "  as  you  and  I  know  him.  The  beauty  of  it  is  that  it 
all  falls  in  with  and  completes  all  the  other  accounts  of  George  in 
the  Rickraan  Letters,  now  in  our  possession.  Unless  I  am  much 
mistaken,  there  is  an  allusion  in  one  of  those  letters  to  George 
Dyer  coming  to  dinner  every  day,  sparing  his  shilling,  which  con- 
fii'ms  this  new  letter,  and  might  have  fixed  the  date,  if  your 
sagacious  point  of  Southey  being  with  Rickman  in  Dublin  at  the 
time  had  not  also  fixed  it  independently.  I  hope  some  day 
that  the  Wordsworths  will  allow  it  to  take  its  place  with 
the  rest  of  the  Rickman  correspondence  in  some  new  Edition  of 
the  Letters. 

*  You  will  be  amused  with  the  enclosed  ^ — the  latest  from  the 
home  of  the  setting-sun.  I  have  written  to  tell  Mr.  Newton  that 
his  "  find  "  is  not  much  of  a  "  find,"  for  the  "  Lines  to  a  Quid  of 
Tobacco "  are  Southey's,  and  are  to  be  found  in  any  collected 
edition  of  his  poems.  I  can't  remember  whether  they  are  in  the 
Annual  anthology  (and  I  am  away  from  my  books),  but  I  rather 
think  not.  I  have  told  him  that  I  would  mention  his  letter  to 
you,  who  are  well  versed  in  Mr.  Cosen's  Manuscripts — now  dis- 
persed, I  suppose. 

'  Still  wet,  cold,  stormy  weather.  Indeed,  I  think  the  "spigot 's 
oot  a'thegither." 

*Yes,  is  uneasy  and  miserable  whenever  he  isn't  Boss. 

He  would  have  "  Boss  locutus  est "  on  the  Title  of  all  his  books. 
Have  you  read  the  replies  to  Besant  in  the  last  two  Guardians } 
Oh  my  !     /  am  giving  them  a  taste  this  week, 

'  Best  regards  and  thanks. — Ever  yours,  A.  Ainger.' 


'  The  Glade,  Branch  Hill, 

'Hampstead,  Feb.  11,  1891. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — . . .  Thanks  for  the  Lamb  verses  which  are 
not  very  remarkable,  but  everything  he  writes  has  a  touch  of  its 
own.  .  .   .  What  do  you  think,  candidly,  of  the  Lamb  memorial- 

^  The  only  interesting  thing  in  Mr.  Newton's  enclosure  is  a  statement  that 
Mr.  E,  D.  North,  of  Scribner's,  New  York,  is  engaged  on  a  Lamb  bibliography. 


252         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

wizidow  scheme  ?  I  have  suggested  to  Mr.  Duncombe  that  the 
church  (in  London)  that  has  most  right  to  any  such  memorial  is 
St.  Andrew's^  Holborn,  where  Lamb's  father^  mother,  and  aunt 
lie  buried ;  and  in  which  parish  they  were  all  living  when  the 
disaster  occurred.  What  do  you  think  ?  I  do  not  see  that  Lamb 
touched  St.  Margaret's,  Westminister,  at  any  one  point. — Yours 
6ver,  (  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  The  Glade,  Branch  Hill, 

Hampstead,  Feb.  19,  1891. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — If  you  did  but  know  the  tortures  I  have 
suffered  for  some  weeks  past  from  conscience  (a  sort  of  chronic 
moral  Dyspepsia)  at  my  neglect  of  you — you  would  indeed  be  full 
of  pity  !  I  am  now  shedding  tears  for  my  past  misconduct 
("Pepper  Caster  again,"  as  Mr.  Swiveller  used  to  write  to  his 
indignant  aunt).  .   .  . 

'  No  !  I  heard  nothing  about  the  feathers,  except  that  I  remember 
the  sign  in  Holborn.  Featherstone  Buildings  was  a  familiar  land- 
mark to  me  in  childhood.  Passing  from  John  Street,  Bedford 
Row,  where  I  lived  from  about  184.2  to  1849,  one  entered 
Holborn,  I  remember,  always  by  that  narrow  thoroughfare. 

'  I  am  pretty  well  in  general  health,  but  my  ailment  does  not 
go  away.  My  voice  keeps  particularly  strong,  thank  God— and 
my  Temple  ministrations  have  been  more  successful  to  my  own 
thinking  than  usual  of  late.  I  have  had  little  leisure  for  litera- 
ture ;  I  have  lectured  once  or  twice  to  the  young  ladies  at  Newn- 
ham — last  Saturday,  among  others.  I  am  to  give  one  of  the  Friday 
evening  discourses  at  the  Royal  Institution  in  April.  I  have 
chosen  for  my  subject  "Euphuism  Past  and  Present" — which  will 
enable  me  to  speak  my  mind  very  freely  on  some  symptoms  of 
literature  in  our  age. 

'  When  are  you  coming  to  town } — talking  is  so  much  sweeter 
than  writing,  and  so  much  easier.  I  shall  perhaps  offer  myself  to 
you  for  a  day  or  two  by  and  by — may  I  } — Yours  ever, 

'  Alfred  Ainger. 
'  So  Emma  Isola  is  gone !  ' 

'  The  Glade,  Branch  Hill, 

'  Hampstead,  Feb.  25,  1891. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — Delighted  to  hear  the  news !  Expect 
me  on  Monday  (life  and  health  permitting)  at  1.30.  I  have  a  variety 
of  things  to  do  in  town,  later  in  the  day,  and  it  suits  me  perfectly. 


ABOUT  CHARLES  LAMB  253 

So  glad  to  know  you  are  "  giving  it  hot "  to  Martin  ("  one  Martin 
does  not  make  a  summer" — but  you  '11  make  it  very  "summery" 
for  Martin),  though  the  Review  is  certain  to  be  set  down  to  me, 
or  Kent,  or  some  other  "malicious  Rival"!  All  talk  when  we 
meet. — Yours  always,  A.  Ainger.' 

'The  Glade,  Branch  Hill, 

'Hawpstead,  Feh.  27,  1801. 

'  My  dear  Campbell, — Many  thanks  for  the  MSS.  which  I 
have  read  with  great  interest.  Your  allusions  to  me  are  so 
generous  and  over-appreciative  (as  you  always  are)  that  1  hardly 
like  to  make  one  discordant  criticism ;  but  I  do  think  you  use 
the  "bludgeon"  too  much  in  your  reviews  of  things  you  dis- 
like. .  .  . 

'  Please  forgive  me.  I  have  all  the  instinct  of  *' bludgeoning" 
myself,  but  I  am  certain  it  is  impolitic :  for  it  leaves  the  casual 
reader  under  the  impression  that  the  reviewer  is  either  a  personal 
enemy  of  the  writer,  or  else  a  rival  writer  on  the  subject  (neither 
of  which,  in  this  case,  you  are),  and  so  he  goes  his  way,  and  sets 
no  store  by  the  Review — and  so  Martin  gets  off: — 

"Judex  damuatur  quum  noceus  absolvitur." — Edinburgh  Review 

{jjaaiiiiH). ' 

'Richmond  House,  Clifton  Hill, 
'Bristol,  July  30,  1891. 

'  My  dear  Campbell,— Forgive  me  yet  once  more — so  full  of 
letter-writing  and  of  much  else  is  this  month  of  July  at  Bristol. 
After  this  week  everything  will  be  quiet  and  dull.  From  Monday 
next  1  have  the  inside  of  two  weeks  free  from  Cathedral  work, 
for  we  close  for  cleaning,  and  I  wish  we  were  once  more  going 
to  roam  in  the  Quantocks.  Very  many  thanks  for  the  schoolboy 
verses  of  Lamb,  so  interesting  from  their  reminiscences  of  his 
Horace,  and  also  his  Gray  and  his  Collins.  I  think  I  never  saw 
them  before,  but  I  have  surely  read  of  their  existence  somewhere 
— perhaps  in  that  old  volume,  Lamh  and  his  Friends,  by  P.  Fitz- 
gerald. They  will  at  once  go  into  the  Lamb  "  Stock-pot " — my 
Commonplace  Book,  which  contains  some  very  curious  "odds 
and  ends."  ' 

['Later  Summer  1891.] 

* ...  I  have  not  told  you  that  I  have  got  some  Charles  Lamb 
Relics  from  Mrs.  Tween's  Executors — the  little  plaster  head  of 


254         LIFE  OF  ALFRED   ATNGER 

Samuel  Salt,  and  the  Poems  on  Various  Occasions,  by  John  Lamb. 
They  did  not  go  to  Sotheby's  with  the  books^  and  I  asked  the 
Executors  to  part  with  them  to  me  privately.  I  am  having  the 
little  head  mounted  and  framed  by  a  very  clever  wood-carver 
here,  and  with  a  little  silver  plate  underneath  with  the  quotation 
from  the  account  of  "  Lovel "  in  the  Old  Benchers  of  the  hmer 
Temple. 

'  I   will  indeed  try  to  see  you   in  your  own  not  "  detestable " 
"Cinque  Port "  ^  before  Christmas  comes.  .  .   . 
'  How  gets  on  the  one-volume  Coleridge  .-' 
*  In  great  haste,  with  best  regards. — Yours  always, 

'  Alfred  Ainger.' 

Among  the  elucidatory  letters  kept  by  Canon  Ainger  none 
is  more  interesting  than  a  note  from  Algernon  Swinburne 
concerning  Elia's  essay  on  George  Wither^  and  that  on  the 
Tragedies  of  Shakespeare  : — 

'The  Pines, 
'Putney  Hill,  S.W.,  May  26. 

'  Dear  Mr.  Ainger, —  .  .  .  "  Nott !  it  is  not! !"  does  not  occur 
anywhere.  At  the  close  of  Lamb's  prefatory  note  to  the  section 
of  Wither's  "Motto"  headed  "Nee  euro,"  Nott  has  had  the 
impertinence  to  write  "  This  should  be  re-written,  with  more 
simplicity."  To  which  Lamb  has  subjoined — "  It  should  not, 
Nott ! — C.  L,"  ;  aftei'wards  adding  (as  above)  in  pencil,  "  Nott !  "  ^ 

'The  "improver  of  Shakespeare"  mentioned  on  p.  396^  was 

1  'I  love  town  or  country;  but  this  detestable  Cinque  Port  is  neither.' — 
'  The  old  Margate  Hoy' — written  from  Hastings — Essays  of  Elia  (Macmillan), 

P-  243- 

'■^  Mr.  Swinburne  possesses  'an  interleaved  copy  of  Wither's  Philarete  and 
other  poems,  edited  and  printed  by  Lamb's  friend  and  old  schoolfellow,  John 
Matthew  Gutch,  at  his  private  press  at  Bristol.  Lamb  made  comments  and 
criticisms  on  the  blank  leaves  (which  later  'formed  the  matter  of  one  of  his 
papers')  and  returned  the  volumes  to  Gutch,  who  sent  them  on  to  Dr.  G.  F. 
Nott,  the  editor  of  Surrey  and  Wyatt's  poems.  Dr.  Nott  added  his  quota  of 
corrections  and  suggestions,  and  the  volumes  once  more  found  their  way  into 
the  hands  of  Lamb,  who  proceeds  {more  suo)  to  criticise  the  last  interloper  with 
the  utmost  freedom  of  language.  .  .  .  The  necessity  for  continually  differing 
from  this  rival  critic  finds  abundant  scope  for  grim  jest  in  connection  with  his 
opponent's  surname.' — Ainger's  Notes  on  Poems,  Plays,  and  Miscellaneous 
Essays  (Macmillan),  p.  399-400. 

^  « I  now  come,'  wrote  Lamb,  'to  the  London  Acting  Edition  of  Macbeth  of 
the  same  date,  1678,  .  .  .  from  which  I  made  a  few  rough  extracts  when  I 
visited  the  British  Museum  for  the  sake  of  selecting  from  the  "Garrick  Plays." 


ABOUT   CHARLES   LAMB  255 

his  self-styled  bastard,  Sir  William  Davenant.  The  monstrous 
alteration  of  Macbeth  there  described  by  Lamb  has  been  reprinted 
in  H.  H.  Furness's  "Variorum"  edition  of  Shakespeare's  play — 
Philadelphia,  1874.  In  common  with  all  Lamb-lovers,  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you  for  the  reproduction  of  that  most  interesting 
letter  to  the  Spectator^ — an  exquisite  novelty.  Allow  me,  never- 
theless— or  rather  all  the  more — on  that  account,  to  enter  my 
strongest  protest  against  your  making  Lamb  mis-spell  the  name 
of  Shakespeare — which,  if  I  am  not  much  mistaken,  he  always 
spelt  as  its  bearer  did  on  the  title-pages  of  both  the  books  he 
published,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  dedication  of  either.  If  people 
prefer  to  talk  or  write  about  Chaxpur  and  Meltun,  let  them  ;  but 
let  them  abstain,  in  the  name  of  accuracy,  from  representing 
Lamb  or  Coleridge  as  the  student  of  Chaxpur  or  Shakspere,  or 
Marvell  as  the  friend  and  panegyrist  of  Meltun. — Yours  very 
truly,  Al,  Swinburne.' 

In  1891,  Mr.  Lee  asked  Canon  Ainger  to  contribute  articles 
upon  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  to  the  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,  and  they  were  ready  early  in  the  new  year.  To 
them  the  next  note  refers,  while  the  fragment  that  follows  it 
belongs  to  a  rather  later  date  : — 

'The  Glade,  Branch  Hill, 

'Hampstead,  Jan.  26,  1892. 

'Dear  Mr.  Lee, — I  send  you  herewith  (very  tardily,  I  fear) 
my  life  of  Charles  Lamb.  I  am  of  course  a  novice  at  dictionary 
work,  and  may  have  erred,  by  excess  or  defect,  in  a  hundred 
ways.  Please  tell  me  what  to  amend,  and  I  will  endeavour  to 
succeed  better.  I  have  avoided  criticism,  almost  entirely,  as  I 
gather  from  the  articles  in  the  dictionary,  generally  is  your 
custom.  I  have  also  avoided,  I  trust,  rhetoric  or  fine  writing. 
Perhaps  after  glancing  at  the  article  in  MS.  you  will  tell  me 
what  you  think  about  Mary  Lamb.  I  feel  that  after  referring 
i-eaders  to  the  present  article,  a  page  or  two  more  would  ampl}^ 
suffice  for  her,  the  two  lives  being  so  bound  together,  and  having 
so  few  incidents  apart. — Yours  truly,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

As  I  can  scarcely  expect  to  be  believed  upon  my  own  word  as  to  what  our 
ancestors  at  that  time  were  willing  to  accept  for  Shakspere,  I  refer  the  reader 
to  that  collection  to  verify  my  report.' — Ainger's  Notes  on  Poems,  Plays,  and 
Miscellaneous  Essays  (Macmillan),  p.  396. 
^  Ainger's  Notes  in  the  same  volume,  pp.  394-395. 


256         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

To  Mr.  Sidney  Lee. 


1894. 


'The  letter  is  not  very  distinctly  and  unquestmiahhi  Lamb's; 
but  it  may  well  be  his.  When  he  was  reckless  in  his  humour^ 
and  allowed  himself  to  revel  in  sheer  nonsense,  his  fun  is  so 
protean  that  it  is  dangerous  to  say  that  any  outburst  is  unlike 
him. 

'  In  the  writing  of  a  serious  letter,  or  quasi-serious,  I  think  I 
could  safely  undertake  to  detect  the  spurious  Lamb  from  the 
true.  .  .  . — Yours  most  truly,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

Here  too  belongs  a  letter  to  Mr.  Gosse,  written  as  late  as 
1900,  but  falling  into  due  place  here,  since  it  concerns  Lamb's 
Letters.  It  forms  no  unfitting  close  to  the  correspondence 
dealing  with  Canon  Ainger's  work  on  Elia. 

To  Mr.  Gosse. 

Master's  House,  Temple,  E.G. 
March  31,  11)00. 

'  My  work  has  largely  consisted  of  transferring  matter  from  the 
Notes  to  the  Text,  as  you  quite  rightly  suggest.  I  have  thus 
removed  any  number  of  Letters  and  Notes  which  in  the  previous 
edition  had  reached  me  too  late  to  put  in  their  proper  place.  .  .  . 
So  deal  mercifully  with  me,  my  dear  Gosse,  and  do  not,  ''as  some 
ungracious  pastors  do,"  quote  my  jieccadillos  as  if  they  proved 
my  principle  of  action,  instead  of  my  temporary  and  accidental 
departure  from  it.  .  .  .  Please  read  my  short  (new)  Preface  to 
Vol.  i.^  Have  you  noticed  two  new  Letters  in  which  Lamb 
romances  to  amuse  or  startle  his  correspondents .''  One  to  Gutch 
(Law  Stationer),  telling  how  the  office-boy  had  run  off  with  the 
cash-box.  Another  showing  how  he  (Lamb)  had  been  arrested  at 
Enfield  on  a  charge  of  murder.' 

1  Edition  de  luxe. 


CHAPTER    XV 

LETTERS 

1892-1896 

After  the  autumn  of  1892,  Ainger''s  life  again  saw  changes. 
In  that  year  he  resigned  the  Readership  at  the  Temple,  the 
post  that  he  had  held  for  six-and-twenty  years.  His  bad 
health,  emphasised  by  a  chronic  catarrh,  had  for  some  time 
past  been  leading  him  to  think  of  such  a  step.  '  I  am,'  he 
wrote  in  1891,  'in  great  straits  as  to  what  to  do,  I  must, 
unless  I  get  rid  of  this  ailment,  give  up  either  my  Canonry 
or  the  Readership  of  the  Temple  and  get  a  long  holiday. 
And  yet  while  my  old  Dean  (at  91)  lies  an  invalid,  and  does 
not  die,  I  don''t  want  to  give  him  a  single  fresh  anxiety !  And 
so  I  wait  on,  expecting,  "  till  something  shall  turn  up,"  or 
some  direction  of  affairs  show  me  how  to  act.  If  I  could 
but  get  a  change  of  Canonry  to  some  more  bracing  part 
of  England — but  when  a  man''s  in  possession  q/"  something, 
no  Dealers  in  Patronage  imagine  we  can  want  anything 
more."* 

A  few  months  later,  after  the  decision  was  made,  he  gives 
his  reasons  for  it  to  Horace  Smith. 

'  Dear  old  Vaughan/  he  says,  '  is  very  good,  and  I  know  he 
loves  me  well — and  we  have  been  always  very  close  friends.  I 
did  not  want  to  survive  him  at  the  Temple,  and  yet  it  would  have 
seemed  unmannerly  to  wait  till  he  resigned,  and  then  send  in  my 
own  resignation.  I  strongly  feel  that  he  will  not  be  much  longer 
with  you.  I  am  grieved  to  leave  London,  but  hope  to  return 
some  day.  What  I  much  desire  is  a  change  of  Canonry — and  to 
Westminster  if  it  might  be.  There  might  be  a  vacancy  there 
any  moment,  but  I  haven't  much  influence  with  old  Gladstone  or 
any  of  his  crew.' 

R 


258         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

And  aerain  in  December,  he  writes  to  Archdeacon  Bather : 

< ,  .  .  I  think  I  was  quite  right  to  leave  the  Temple.  I  had 
been  there  long  enough,  and  Vaughan,  though  at  first  genuinely 
distressed,  came  round  to  see  it  and  to  approve.  He  feels  that 
he  himself  may  not  remain  in  office  much  longer — and  he  said 
that  I  could  not  well  stay  on  till  he  resigned,  and  then  leave. 
It  would  have  looked  too  marked,  and  not  been  respectful  or 
kind  to  the  Temple  authorities.  People  are  very  kind  in  what 
they  say  everywhere,  and  I  have  most  charming  letters  from  all 
ranks  from  the  Judges  downward.  .  .  .' 

He  could  not  thus  give  up  his  post  without  some  definite 
plan  for  the  future,  and  after  much  consideration  he  accepted, 
on  trial,  the  college  living  of  St.  Edward's,  Cambridge.  There 
were  many  reasons  for  his  choice — the  congenial  surroundings ; 
the  neighbourhood  of  old  friends  ;  leisure  for  literary  pursuits, 
the  parish  being  small  and  prosperous. 

<■  I  am  coming,'  he  tells  Mr.  Loder,  ^  to  be  a  nearer  neighbour 
of  yours.  I  have  accepted  the  Httle  living  of  St.  Edward's 
in  Cambridge  (in  the  gift  of  my  college,  Trinity  Hall) — and 
Cambridge  will  be  my  home,  if  life  is  spared,  for  a  few  years  at 
least.  Perhaps  you  will  come  over  and  see  me  some  day,  and 
take  a  dinner  and  bed.     And  Aldis  Wright  shall  come  and  meet 

you. 

'  My  Canton  Jar  ^  will  accompany  me  wherever  I  go,  and  is  one 
of  the  most  cherished  of  my  possessions. 

*  I  shall  have  many  Lamb  autographs  and  relics  to  show  you.' 

Meanwhile  the  wrench  from  the  Temple  was  hard,  nor  could 
he  bear  to  speak  of  it.  'Enclosed,'  he  writes  to  a  friend, 
'  please  find  (as  the  commercial  gents  say),  two  orders  for  the 
Temple.  .  .  .  Odd  and  sad — it  may  be  my  last  Sunday  there 
— but  expect  no  Farewell  Sermons  from  me.  To  begin  with, 
I  should  break  down  and  could  not  face  the  ordeal.' 

'  I  am  very  low  and  sad  about  leaving  the  Temple,  as  you  may 
guess,'  he  writes  again  to  Horace  Smith ;  '  but  Vaughan  seems  to 
look  forward  with  pleasure  to  making  me  his  deputy  sometimes 
when  he  is  away  at  LlandafF,  and  this  comforts  me  very  much — 
for  I  have  struck  my  roots  very  deep  there,  I  find.' 

*  See  chapter  xiii,  p.  232. 


LETTERS  259 

He  had  to  begin  work  at  Cambridge  in  some  discomfort,  for 
he  had  as  yet  no  home  there.  '  I  have  not,'  he  writes, '  found 
a  tenant  for  this  house,  and  I  cannot  afford  to  take  another 
good  house  in  Cambridge  until  I  do.  Nor  do  I  mean  to  dis- 
mantle this  house  for  the  present.  I  am  taking  a  couple  of 
rooms  over  one  of  the  shops  in  King's  Parade,  like  a  gay 
undergraduate,  and  am  going  backwards  and  forwards  for 
Sundays.  There  are  no  Poor  in  the  Parish,  so  that  I  am  not 
wronging  any  one  very  much.  What  I  shall  ultimately  do,  if 
I  fail  to  let  this  house  here,  I  can't  say.  Between  you  and  me, 
great  efforts  will,  I  believe,  be  made  to  get  me  a  London 
Canonry  some  day — but  the  prospect  is  of  course  chancy.  If 
the  Conservatives  were  in,  I  think  it  would  come  all  right. 
But  keep  this  to  yourselves,  please.' 

The  house  at  Cambridge  was  never  taken,  for  the  arrange- 
ment there  came  to  an  end.  In  his  considerations,  he  had 
left  out  one  great  drawback  to  his  appointment,  that  he  was 
not  cut  out  to  be  a  parish  clergyman  and  would  probably 
not  have  settled  down  to  it.  But  in  this  case  matters  were 
taken  out  of  his  hands  when  he  had  only  been  six  weeks  at 
St.  Edward's ;  for  early  in  1893,  the  doctors  ordered  him  a 
long  holiday  abroad  as  the  only  real  cure  for  his  complaint. 
His  letters  alone  show  how  frequently  he  suffered  from  bodily 
distress — generally  proceeding,  as  he  said,  '  from  that  trouble- 
some organ,  the  liver — "  To  Greece  (and  all  other  countries) 
the  direful  spring  of  woes  unnumbered."'  It  happened  that 
a  young  Bristol  friend  of  his,  an  invalid,  Mr.  Daniel  Cave, 
had  been  recommended  to  try  a  voyage  to  Egypt,  and  it  was 
speedily  arranged  that  the  two  should  join  forces.  Directly 
the  scheme  was  fixed,  Ainger  was  as  delighted  as  a  boy.  Mr. 
Cave  was  already  endeared  to  him  by  his  sweetness  and 
courage  in  suffering,  as  well  as  by  his  love  of  books — a  love 
which  Ainger  had  long  fostered  in  him  as  a  great  resource 
in  illness.  Tliey  were  used  to  one  another's  company.  They 
were  to  have  entire  rest  and  to  be  a  long  time  away.  The 
very  few  letters  that  remain  have  a  holiday  ring  about 
them. 


260         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

To  Mr.  du  Maurier. 

'  Nile  Steamer,  "  Rameses  the  Great," 

*  ON  THE  Nile,  five  days  from  Cairo, 

'  February  26,  1893. 

'  My  dear  Kicky, — I  am  bold  enough  to  think  that  you  and 
yours  will  not  be  displeased  to  have  some  tidings  of  me  at  first 
hand.  And  first  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  everything  has 
prospered  with  my  friend  and  myself  thus  far,  and  that  we  have 
had  fine  weather,  and  first-rate  sea-passages  throughout.  We 
travelled  straight  through  (sleeping-cars)  from  London  to  Naples, 
by  Paris,  Mont  Cenis,  and  Rome — and  then  rested  in  the  beautiful 
Bay,  with  Vesuvius  all  a-smoke,  for  four  or  five  days,  with  Pompeii 
and  Baiae  and  other  sacred  spots  engaging  our  attention  all  round. 
Thence  across  the  Peninsula  to  Brindisi,  and  so  by  Austrian-Lloyds' 
Steamer  to  Alexandria  and  Cairo.  Of  all  the  delights  and 
splendours  whereof  more,  I  trust,  when  we  meet  on  many  a 
sunny  afternoon  in  May  on  Hampstead  Heath.  We  have  come 
upon  many  English  friends  and  acquaintances,  but  have  not  made 
any  new  ones  of  any  quality.  We  are  in  a  first-rate  Steamer  (one 
of  Mr.  Cook's),  with  every  luxury  and  comfort,  and  only  some 
thirty-five  passengers,  the  boat  being  constructed  to  take  twice 
that  number,  so  that  we  are  not  crowded,  and  life  is  very  easy. 
Of  the  thirty-five,  only  about  half  are  English  speaking,  of  these 
a  few  are  Scotch,  and  a  few  American.  There  are  some  rare 
specimens  of  the  British  Philistine.  We  heard  something  to-day 
that  we  thought  might  suit  you.  A  very  gentlemanly  young 
Dane,  on  board,  was  confiding  to  a  very  vulgar  Englishwoman 
that  he  found  such  difficulty  in  the  pronunciation  of  certain 
English  letters,  especially  the  "  R."  She  expressed  much 
sympathy,  but  added,  "  You  surprise  me.  I  should  have  thought 
our  '  H  '  would  have  been  much  more  difficult  for  you."  (She 
probably  spoke  from  bitter  personal  experience  !) 

*  I  have  been  to  the  Pyramids,  and  penetrated  to  the  interior 
of  the  big  one — to  the  King's  Chamber — where  the  sarcophagus 
of  Cheops  still  remains.  Three  stalwart  Bedouin  Arabs  hoisted 
and  pulled  and  pushed  me  through  the  difficult  passages,  and 
as  I  was  nearly  out  again,  very  much  perspiring,  one  addressed 
me,  and  said,  "  You  know  Mark  Twain's  book  }  Yes  .''"  So  that 
you  see  our  great  English  and  American  humorists  are  doing 
their  civilising  work  even  in  the  Deserts  of  Libya.  The  same  as 
another  Bedouin,  who  was  our  Cicerone  for  the  day,  and  had  a 


LETTERS  261 

number  of  cards  on  which  our  predecessors  had  written  friendly 
words  as  to  his  quaHties  as  Guide.  He  shewed  me  one  of  the 
last  he  had  received,  and  which  he  seemed  much  to  value.  He 
asked  me  if  I  knew  the  gentleman  in  England.  I  took  the  card 
and  read  "  Mr.  Clement  Scott."  I  told  him  that  that  was  his 
Arabic  name,  but  that  in  England  we  pronounced  it  "  T-ommy 
R-t."  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  columns  of  the  Daily  Telegraph 
have  long  ago  sounded  the  praises,  and  described  the  dress  and 
bearing  of  our  friend  "  Isa  Abdul,"  for  such  was  his  name. 

*  I  hope  you  and  your  dear  ones  are  all  well  and  thriving,  and 
that  your  Irish  journey  was  pleasant  and  prosperous,  and  brought 
you  both  money  and  friends,  and  a  store  of  good  Irish  stories. 
I  have  not  seen  the  last  two  Punches,  and  every  Tuesday  I  am 
perfectly  miserable.  If  you  should  be  bursting  with  a  desire  to 
write  me  a  line  or  two,  address  "  Care  of  T.  Cook  &  Sons,  Cairo, 
^gypt-"     ^est  love  and  regards  to  all,  your  ever  faithful, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  Miss  Thompson. 

'Hotel  d'Angleterre, 
'  Athens,  Sunday,  March  19,  1893. 

'.  .  .  But  oh,  my  dearest  Mary,  I  cannot  even  attempt  to 
describe  to  you  the  beauty  and  the  inspiration  of  this  city,  which 
it  has  been  the  dream  of  my  life  to  behold,  I  have  just  been  this 
afternoon,  for  the  second  time,  to  the  Areopagus,  and  stood  again 
on  the  very  spot  where  St.  Paul  stood,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 
with  the  Athenians  before  him,  and  the  whole  city  lying  at  his 
feet — the  most  superb  panorama — ,  with  the  mountains  beyond 
and  around,  and  the  Parthenon  and  other  temples  to  his  right 
and  left.  It  is  the  loveliest,  most  touching  spectacle  my  eyes 
ever  beheld — and  I  am  most  thankful  to  have  been  spared  to  see 
it.  I  went  to  church,  like  a  good  Englishman,  this  morning,  but 
all  through  the  sermon  I  was  listening  to  St.  Paul  on  the  neigh- 
bouring hill,  and  hearing  him  quote  Menander  about  "  We  also  " 
being  "  His  offspring."  ' 

After  two  months'  absence,  he  returned  much  the  better  for 
his  trip.  He  was  very  glad  to  be  back  in  familiar  surroundings. 
'  I  am  not  happy  in  places  where  I  do  not  get  my  letters  and 
the  newspaper/  he  said.  May  and  June  passed  pleasantly,  and 
July  saw  him  once  again  in  Bristol.    He  did  not  lose  many 


262        LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

days  before  resuming  his  relations  with  Punch  and  his  corre- 
spondence with  du  Maurier.    The  letters  continue  as  usual. 

'Richmond  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  July  19, 1898. 

'Why.  Oh!  WHY  —  does  not  my  "Kicky"  consult  his 
"  Chanoine  "  before  he  "  does  "  a  joke  sent  him  ?  The  "  nothing 
to  nobody  "  is  as  old  as  Hood,  who  tells  the  story  (I  thtjik,  for  I 
am  away  from  my  books)  in  a  note  to  some  Papers  of  his  on 
"  Copyright."  In  any  case  he  tells  it  as  of  some  miserly  old  man, 
whose  liberality  is  in  question. 

'  Hotv  are  the  dear  family  at  N.G.  House  ?  I  have  no  news  for 
them,  save  that  I  do  my  daily  and  weekly  duties  with  meekness — 
and  go  out  to  dinner  sometimes — and  behave  myself  decorously  to 
my  fellow-man.  .  .  .  — Your  own  attached  (though  critical) 

'A.    AiNGER.* 

'Richmond  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  Sept.  16, 1893. 
'  Mv  DEAR  Kicky, — It  is  no  use  !  I  can  hold  out  no  longer  ! ! 
I  must  have  the  original  of  the  "  Doocid  fine  Chappie  ! "  and 
enclose  what  I  believe  to  be  the  usual  cheque.  I  have  long  been 
on  the  look-out  for  a  "  du  Maurier,"  in  his  "later"  period,  and 
now  I  have  hit  it  exactly.  Please  (if  you  will  let  me  have  it),  let 
it  be  enclosed  between  two  cardboards  and  forwarded  to  me  here. 
I  hope  you  have  got  my  two  last  letters. — Your  own  and  faithful, 
and  admiring  Canon,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

November  found  him  back  once  more  at  the  Glade,  which 
happily  had  found  no  tenant. 

'  No,  Mr.  Ignoramus '  (he  wrote  thence  to  du  Maurier),  'it's  a 
Latin  Ode,  and  runs  thus  : — 

'"Animula,  vagula,  blandula, 
Hospes  comesque  corporis, 
Quae  nunc  abibis  in  loca .'' " 

'  You  see,  dear  Scholiast,  that  "  abibis  "  being  a  verb  of  motion 
takes  in  with  our  accusative  after  it ;  note  also  that  loca  is  a 
frequent  alternative  for  locos — there  being  a  form  "locum,"  as  well 

as  "locus." 

'  (Were  you  only  jocose, 
You  might  use  locos — 
But  being  a  joker. 
You  may  rise  to  loca  !) 


LETTERS  263 

*  I  shall  not  improbably  lunch  with  you  (in  accordance  with  your 
sweet  invitation)  on  Tuesday  next. 

'  How  are  you  after  looking  at  's  drawing  in  this  week's 

Punch — as  well  as  can  be  expected  ? — Your  own  fondly  attached, 

'  Canon.' 

To  Mrs.  Smith. 

'  Christmas,  1893. 

'.  .  .  This  is  the  most  ungenial  weather  for  Xmas  I  ever 
recollect,  it  is  cold  and  damp,  and  windy,  and  gloomy — so  sit 
with  your  back  to  the  window  while  you  read  this  and  keep  one 
eye  on  the  fire  ;  which  reminds  me  of  what  Heinrich  Heine  said — 
"  that  ladies  who  write  books  always  write  with  one  eye  on  their 
Paper,  and  another  on  a  man — except  "  (he  added)  "the  Countess 
Hahn-Hahn,  who  had  only  one  eye."  Talking  of  the  fire,  you 
seem  to  have  been  breaking  the  record  in  conflagrations  this 
week  at  Sheffield.  A  poor  linen-draper  too — I  hope  he  is  insured. 
I  i-emember  one  night  some  years  ago,  from  Hampstead  Heath, 
looking  forth  upon  a  great  Fire  at  Maple's,  the  Furniture  people 
in  Tottenham  Court  Road.  I  was  unfeeling  enough  to  quote 
Tennyson,  "  That  Maple  burn  itself  away ! "  (/«  Memoriam. 
Remind  Smith  to  look  it  up.) 

'This  subject  of  puns  reminds  me  of  a  very  pretty  edition  of 
Hood's  humorous  Poems,  Macmillan,  published  this  Christmas, 
with  some  very  charming  illustrations  by  a  new  Artist,  who  was 
introduced  to  my  notice  by  Dinham  Atkinson.  The  Publishers 
asked  me  to  write  the  Introduction,  and  if  it  falls  in  your  way 
you  may  possibly  (but  not  likely)  recognise  some  sentences 
out  of  a  lecture  on  Hood  that  I  once  gave  at  your  Literary  and 
Philosophical. 

'  Oh  !  you  dislike  Puns,  do  you  .''  So  do  I  generally — (see  my 
Preface,  passim).     But  sometimes  one  is  irresistible.  .  .  . 

'  As  Artemus  Ward  used  to  say — "  A  joke  now  and  then 
improves  a  comic  paper,"  and  it  may  also  improve  a  Christmas 
Letter.  .  .  . 

'  One  piece  of  frivolity  brings  on  another.  Ah  !  I  remember  a 
Christmas  years  ago  at  the  old  Atkinsons'  at  Kingsley,  a  sad  case  of 
one  thi7ig  bringing  on  another.  I  hope  it  won't  occur  again  (history 
repeating  itself)  at  your  hospitable  board.  A  poor  young  lady 
was  taking  a  sausage  from  a  dish  handed  round,  to  go  with  her 
turkey,  but  the  sausage  (alas  !)  had  not  been  severed  from  its 
companion — nor  the  companion  (Horror  !)  from  the  next  one — 


264         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

and  so  they  poured  on  to  her  plate — like  "  linked  sweetness  long 
drawn  out" — until  she  was  ready  to  fall  through  the  floor  with 
nervousness  and  mortification.  "  One  thing  drawing  on  another  " 
— Ah  !  my  Brethren — how  often — but  I  forget  myself !  .  .  . 

'  Be  sure  you  answer  all  my  questions  when  you  write — and 
about  your  visit  at  Birmingham,  and  everything  concerning  'em,  and 
if  every  Knyvett  is  right  as  a  trivet,  and  if  dear  Katie  is  in  judgment 
more  weightij — and  if  our  dear  Lili/  is  ever  known  to  be  silly — alas  ! 
for  the  Rhyme — it  has  done  me  this  time  :  but  I  hope  her  dear 
Tom  will  not  judge  me  therefrom  :  I  feared  lest  the  shock  would 
dismay  every  Lochvood — at  this  awful  profanity  as  to  dear  Lily's 
sanifij.  (You  will  observe  that  I  am  in  training  for  the  Laureate- 
ship,  which  Mr.  Gladstone  has  now  decided  that  he  will  fill  up 
at  the  opening  of  the  coming  Century).     I  wonder,  by  the  way, 

if  you  heard  what  is  reported  to  have  said  of  the  Grand 

Old  Man  :  that  he  "  combined  the  eloquence  of  a  St.  Paul  with 
the — inaccuracy  of  an  Attafiias." 

'  Inaccuracy  is  so  curiously  like  "  in  a  curacy  "  that  I  naturally 
begin  to  think  of  my  dear  godson  Jim,  who  is,  I  trust,  covering 
himself  with  glory — and  reflecting  some  upon  his  godfather — 
in  our  University  Town.  It  is  a  horrid  climate  and  no  mistake, 
and  it  had  much  to  do  with  my  not  finally  accepting  St.  Edward's, 
I  hope  the  boy's  health  will  not  suffer.  If  it  does,  don't  let  him 
stay.  It  is  so  awfully  depressing  to  some  constitutions.  Talking 
of  depi-essing — there  Ave  go  again — did  you  hear  of  the  Stage 
Manager  at  the  Lyceum  drilling  the  Witches  in  the  great  Brocken 
Scene  (Infernal  Regions)  in  Faust }  They  came  on  hopping  and 
skipping,  and  as  merry  as  you  like,  when  he  sternly  checked 
them — "  That  won't  do  at  all !  You  musn't  look  'appy  !  you  musn't 
look  'appy  !  You  're  not  on  'Ampstead  'Eath — you  're  in  'Ell  !  " 
It  was  also  at  the  Lyceum  that  one  of  the  carpenters  was  one  day 
seen  hunting  about  for  something,  with  a  very  discontented  and 
melancholy  air,  and  was  heard  to  mutter — "  Dear  !  dear  !  dear  ! 
everything  's  gone  wrong  with  me  this  week ;  I  buried  my  wife 
yesterday — and  now  I  can't  find  my  bradawl  anywhere  !  " 

'  But  come,  come,  there  are  limits  to  this  style  of  letter-writing, 
even  at  festal  seasons,  and  this  epistle  is  only  too  like  the  mis- 
directed humour  (so  called)  of  those  I  used  to  write  in  the  old, 
old  days,  before  years  had  brought  the  philosophic  mind.  ...  So 
let  me  apologise  for  this  temporary  relapse  into  the  childish 
gambols  that  once  could  please  :  and  whatever  you  do  —  don't 
forbid  me  your  house,  for  I  shall  take  no  notice  if  you  do  ! 


LETTERS  265 

'  God  bless  you^  clear  old  friends.  We  all  send  love  and  regards 
and  best  wishes^  and  you  lmo7v — so  don't  pretend  you  don't — that 
I  am  always, — Your  affect''  and  faithful,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

1894,  which  was  to  be  so  momentous  a  year  for  him,  opened 
with  a  press  of  business. 

'  I  hope  you  can  forgive  my  great  discourtesy  in  not  sooner 
thanking  you  for  the  letter  of  Charles  Lamb's  that  you  were  so 
kind  as  to  send  me  some  weeks  since.  The  only  excuse  I  can 
offer  is  an  accidental  and  inevitable  conflux  of  engagements  that 
has  been  mine  the  last  month.  A  visit  to  Bristol,  for  a  chapter 
meeting,  a  visit  to  Manchester  to  lecture  at  Owens  College,  and 
stay  with  my  old  friend,  A.  W.  Ward,  a  sermon  at  Oxford,  and 
three  lectures  at  the  Royal  Institution ;  these  are  among  the 
"circumstances  over  which  I  have  had  no  control,"  and  I  feel 
sure  you  will  judge  me  gently.' 

So  he  writes  to  Mr.  Sidney  Lee,  his  friend,  and  by  now  his 
editor,  for  Ainger  had  already  written  his  article  on  Lamb  in 
the  Dktionaiy  of  National  Biography.  And  the  fragments 
that  follow  are  addressed  to  the  same  correspondent. 

'  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  Meres,  in  using  the  phrase 
"among  his  private  friends,"  meant  something  more  than  that 
the  Sonnets  were  still  in  manuscript  ?  Does  not  the  particularity 
of  the  phrase  point  to  the  fact  that  the  Sonnets  were  in  truth 
largely  "  pieces  de  circonstance,"  and  were  written  at  the  request 
or  suggestion  of  many  and  various  friends  who  wanted  expression 
given,  in  verse,  to  some  incident  or  experience  of  their  own  ? 

'  I  was  reading  last  night  Charles  Knight  on  the  subject  of 
begetter,  etc.  It  strikes  me  that  he  is  (for  once)  very  acute.  He 
is  not  in  general  very  much  of  a  commentator. 

'Are  you  quite  right  in  instancing  "Shoal,"  for  school,  as  a  happy 
emendation  of  Theobald's  ?  Are  they  not  the  same  word  origin- 
ally, and  did  not  mariners  commonly  talk  of  a  "  School  of  Por- 
poises," for  instance  ?     has  not  returned  to  the  charge.     I 

should  say,  with  the  American  in  the  story,  that  I  would  not 
willingly  call  him,  or  any  man,  a  ''  liar,"  but  that  if  I  met  him 
walking  down  Waterloo  Place  arm  in  arm  with  Ananias  and 
Sapphira,  I  should  say  it  was  quite  di  family  partij  ! '  .   .  . 

*  June  14. 
'  I  am  so  glad  the  dinner  last  week  went  off  so  successfully,  and 
I  thank  you  very  much  for  mentioning  my  name  among  those  who 


266         LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

most  cordially  recognise  Mr.  Smith's  great  services  to  English 
History  in  what  he  is  doing.  I  noticed  that  my  friend  Bishop 
Creighton  spoke  of  them  as  services  "  to  Literature,"  but  they  are 
far  more  than  that.' 

In  the  early  summer,  Dean  Vaughan's  resignation  of  the 
Mastership  was  finally  announced,  and  in  June,  Lord  Rosebery 
offered  the  post  to  Alfred  Ainger.  He  could  not  have  found 
a  fitter  person  for  the  office,  nor  one  who  delighted  in  it 
more. 

'The  AxHENiEUM, 

Vime28,  1894. 
'  Dear  Horace  (wrote  the  new  Master  to  his  old  friend), — You 
must  be  among  the  first  to  hear  that  Lord  Rosebery  has  offered 
me  the  Mastership,  and  that  I  have  accepted  it.  .  .  . — Your  ever 
affectionate,  A.  Ainger.' 

The  appointment  gave  universal  satisfaction. 

'  Of  Canon  Ainger/  said  the  Times,  '  we  may  almost  say  that  he 
has  become  prominent  in  his  own  despite.  So  far  has  he  been 
from  unduly  pushing  himself  to  the  front  that  he  might  be 
blamed,  if  at  all,  for  keeping  too  much  in  the  background.  Lord 
Rosebery  has  been  too  keen-sighted  for  him,  and  has  picked  him 
out  for  the  office  which  he  is  now  to  fill,  and,  we  doubt  not,  to 
adorn.     His  appointment  is  a  recognition.' 

And  in  all  the  letters  that  he  had  from  friends  and 
strangers  the  refrain  is  the  same,  only  warmer,  '  I  think 
your  appointment  will  be  received  in  this  way  wherever 
you  are  known,  since  where  you  are  known  you  are  beloved.' 
These  words  from  one  of  the  notes  epitomise  the  general 
opinion. 

Ainger's  summer  migration  to  his  Canonry  and  the  closing 
of  the  Temple  for  vacation  prevented  his  immediate  assump- 
tion of  his  new  duties.  It  is  from  Bristol  that  he  writes  the 
next  letter,  again  to  Horace  Smith  (whose  son  had  been  dis- 
tinguishing himself) — and  the  rest  follow  in  due  sequence. 

'  Richmond  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,Bristol,  July  16,  9  a.m.' 

'  Dear  Horace, — My  warmest  congratulations  to  the  dear  boy, 
and  to  ALL  ! !     I   knew  it !  I  knew  it !  !  from  the  day  he  acted 


LETTERS  267 

umpire  and  declared  me  out  (for  stomach  before  wicket).  I  will 
write  you  further  in  a  day  or  two.  I  am  off  to  London  for  the 
day,  so  excuse  haste.  I  never  thanked  you,  dear  H.,  for  your 
own  felicitations  on  the  Mastership,  but  up  to  present  moment 
have  had  276  letters,  and  they  take  some  time.  What  to  call 
me,  quotha  ? — 

''  Call  me  Lalage  or  Chloris 
Perdita,  Neaei'a,  Doris  ! 
Only,  only,  call  me  thine." 

(Coleridge,  not  the  lamented  chief.) 

*  Love  to  all,  your  ever  own,  A.  A.' 


To  Mr.  Gosse. 

'  Richmond  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  July  25,  1894. 

*  Mv  DEAR  GossE, — I  Write  this  in  case  you  should  hear  that  I 
had  been  seen  in  London  last  Monday  week,  the  very  day  of  the 
Keats  celebration.  For  as  a  fact  I  7vas  up  for  one  day — suddenly 
and  unexpectedly,  to  see  my  Dentist — and  I  was  in  the  hands  of 
"kind  heart"  (as  they  called  him  euphemistically,  in  Shake- 
speare's day)  at  the  very  'witching  hour  of  4  p.m.,  when  your 
proceedings  opened.  So  do  not  write  me  down  perjured  caitiff 
because  I  had  previously  refused  your  committee's  flattering 
invitation. 

'  I  read  the  report  of  all  your  sayings  and  doings  with  great 
interest,  and  in  the  main  with  great  agreement,  though  to  call 
'  Keats  "  one  of  the  "  loveablest  "  or  most  loved,  of  English  poets, 
as  Palgrave  did,  seems  to  me  to  argue  great  perversity  of  judg- 
ment, or  infelicity  of  expression.  I  quite  am  with  you  in  thinking 
Keats  on  the  whole  the  most  ideally  ''poetical"  of  poets,  as 
regards  expression,  that  ever  lived. 

'  What  I  do  think  incongruous  is  putting  him  in  a  Church — 
which  seems  to  me  on  a  par  with  placing  a  bust  of  the  "  Judicious 
Hooker"  (my  eminent  predecessor)  in  the  Parthenon. 

'For  Johnny  could  not  indeed  be  said  so  much  to  have  "for- 
gotten what  the  inside  of  a  Church  was  like,"  as  never  to  have 
made  the  discovery. 

'  Many  thanks  again  for  your  telegram,  one  of  the  first  in  time, 
and  certainly  not  one  of  the  least  valued,  that  I  received.  My 
friends  have  been  very  kind  ;  nearly  three  hundred  letters  up  to 


268         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

last  evening!  and  so  little  Romance  about  the  thing— either  for 
myself  or  my  hearers — seeing  that  we  have  known  one  another 
for  some  eight  and  twenty  years  ! — Ever  yours, 

*  Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  Mr.  du  Maurier  (after  the  publication  of  Trilhy). 

'  Richmond  House, 
'Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  August  14,  1894. 

'  Dear  Kicky, — I  yearn  for  news  of  you  and  yours — but  I  don't 
deserve  any,  for  I  have  so  long  neglected  your  charming  letter. 
I  have  been  very  busy  with  Cathedral  Work  and  with  corre- 
spondence (arising  out  of  the  Mastership  among  other  things), 
and  am  still  much  in  arrears.  Then  we  had  a  week  of  the  Doctors 
(British  Medical  Association),  and  I  preached  to  the  Doctors,  and 
dined  with  them,  and  met  them  at  Garden  Parties,  and  alto- 
gether had  a  high  old  time  of  it — and  met  many  old,  and  made 
some  nice  new  friends.     More  when  we  meet ! 

'  I  have  been  hoping  to  be  able  to  write  and  say  I  had  read 
all  Trilby.  But  as  yet  I  have  only  managed  to  get  the  first  three 
numbers  of  Harper,  but  I  have  read  these  with  astonishment  and 
delight.  In  the  scene  in  which  Trilby  first  discovers  that  her 
calling  (as  nude  model)  is  a  shameful  one,  and  does  so  through 
her  love  and  respect  for  these  Englishmen,  you  have  reached  a 
height  that  any  novelist  might  envy.  It  is  almost  genius,  and  I 
cried  over  it  in  bed,  when  I  read  it.  And  moreover,  dear  boy, 
alloAv  me  to  say  that  you  there  excelled  yourself  because  you 
forgot — in  the  intensity  of  your  own  feelings — to  be  consciously 
witty  and  humorous.  The  fault  of  your  style,  I  venture  to  say, 
is  that  the  love  of  persijlage  is  too  continuous — one  longs  sometimes 
for  a  repose.  But  for  the  vivacity  and  brightness  of  your  descrip- 
tions and  dialogue  I  have  nothing  but  praise — and  envy  ("  a  little 
friendly  envy,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Pell).  I  hope  to  get  the 
remaining  chapters  in  a  few  days,  and  shall  eagerly  read  them. 
I  rather  dread  the  hypnotic  portion — I  care  nothing  for  these 
things — and  fear  it  may  damage  or  discredit  the  verisimilitude  of 
the  other  portions  of  the  story. 

*  I  wish  I  had  some  stories  for  you,  but  I  have  none.  I  hope 
soon  to  see  Whitby  appearing  in  Punch.  Don't  go  tempting  me 
with  any  more  "Deuced  fine  chappies."  That  reminds  me — how 
is  the  dear  Gerald  ? 

'Punch  is  wretchedly  bad  just  now.  .  .  .  Guthrie's yor/e  lies  in 


LETTERS  269 

character  and  dialogue,  not  in  plot-making  or  situation,  I  think. 
I  read  an  interesting  article  on  Phil  May  in  the  Magazine  of  Art, 
which  was  lent  me.  He  is  the  genius  among  the  coming  men,  I 
think.  I  have  just  bought  two  little  water  colour  sketches  here, 
by  Wimperis.     Do  you  know  him .''     He  has  got  great  charm. 

'  I  sometimes  snigger  at  the  comic  column  of  our  local  press. 
For  a  taste  ! 

(1)"  Yes,  the  horse  cost  me  £500,  and  you  shall  have  it  for 

fifty." 

{Suspicious  friend.^  "  That 's  rather  a  curious  reduction,  is 
it  not  }  " 

"■  Well,  the  fact  is,  it  bolted  one  day,  and  killed  my  poor  wife — 
and  now  I  've  no  further  use  for  it  ! " 

(2)  '  Two  strangers  contemplating  "  Niagara." 

Fi^'st  S.  "  It  seems  a  pity,  does  it  not,  Sir  ?  this  vast  volume  of 
water  running  thus  uselessly  away." 

Second  S.     "  You  speak.  Sir,  I  presume,  as  an  Engineer." 

First  S.     "  No,  Sir— as  a  Milkman  ! " 

'  Love  to  you  all  from  self  and  nieces,  yours  affectionately, 

'A.   AiNGER.' 

To  THE  Same. 

'  Richmond  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  Sept.  12,  1894. 

'  Dearest  Kicky, —  .  .  .  There  is  not  much  news  here.  People 
are  beginning  to  come  back,  and  things  are  livelier.  Moreover, 
the  weather  is  really  enchanting.  The  great  Irving  comes  here 
next  week,  and  I  am  actually  trying  to  get  stalls  to  see  him  in  a 
new  little  one-act  Piece  by  Conan  Doyle,  called  the  Waterloo 
Veteran.  He  plays  the  Bells  also,  which  oddly  enough  I  have 
never  seen,     "  Ellen  "  is  not  with  him  this  time — only  "  Marion." 

*  Well,  I  have  finished  Tiilby.  You  know  how  little  I  care  for 
the  supernatui-al  in  Fiction — so  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I 
love  the  first  half  of  your  book,  and  don't  care  for  the  second.  Up 
to  the  "hypnotism"  incidents,  I  think  your  story  charming  and 
beautifully  true  to  nature  and  artistic — after  that,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  a  pathetic  and  deeply  interesting  and  credible  story  of  real 
life  degenerates  into  a  Fairy-tale. 

'  I  need  not  say  that  I  don't  care  for  your  theological  discus- 
sions, not  because  they  are  unorthodox,  but  because  they  seem  to 
me  irrelevant,  and  therefore  inartistic ;  and  the  speech  about 
"  robbing  me  of  my  Saviour  "  should  not  have  appeared  at  all. 


270         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

It  is  a  blot ;  again,  not  because  of  bringing  a  Sacred  Name  into 
a  humorous  story,  but  because  it  is  too  obviously  lugged  in,  and 
therefore  again  an  offence  against  art. 

'  All  through,  save  in  one  or  two  of  the  best  passages,  you  are, 
in  ray  judgment,  too  perpetually  upon  the  "  humorous  tiptoe." 
You  are  nowhere  so  excellent  and  so  strong,  as  when  you  forget 
the  persiflage-ic  vein,  and  become  serious.  As  I  said  in  my  last 
letter,  the  whole  situation,  and  the  conduct  of  Trilby  after  dis- 
covering by  the  love  and  esteem  of  those  three  good  fellows  that 
sitting  for  the  nude  is,  to  say  the  least,  unwomanly — is  just 
admirable — and  so  are  the  conversations  of  Little  Billee's  mother 
and  uncle,  when  they  beg  Trilby  to  break  the  engagement. 
Trilby's  death  scene  I  am  less  pleased  with.  It  seems  to  me  too 
long,  and  would  have  been  far  more  effective  and  pathetic  if  half 
the  length.  But  for  all  that,  when  the  book  comes  out  in  one 
volume  form  with  the  Pictures,  I  must  have  one,  with  an  inscription 
from  the  talented  author  and  dear  friend. 

'  By  the  way,  why  do  you  draw  Little  Billee,  almost  to  the 
life,  from  F.  Walker,  and  then  introduce  F.  Walker  as  a  separate 
individual  .-*  Is  this  simply  to  perplex  and  hoax  the  gentle  reader  ? 
A  propos  de  F.  W.,  I  fear  you  will  call  me  an  extravagant  dog,  but 
I  was  tempted  in  our  leading  Art-shop  here  the  other  day,  and 
bought  an  etching  by  Macbeth,  from  F.  W.,  A  Rainy  Day — do  you 
know  it  ?  Simply  a  dull  bit  of  country  town,  with  a  pony  cart, 
and  two  umbrellas — and  roads  streaming  with  water, — but  oh  ! 
"  the  Poetry  of  it— the  Poetry  of  it,  lago  ! "  How  thankful  I  am 
to  you,  Kicky,  for  having  taught  me,  among  other  good  things,  to 
know  good  art  when  I  see  it — though,  as  you  see,  the  knowledge 
is  going  far  to  land  me  in  the  Bankruptcy  Court  ! 

'  I  heard  a  story  (to  me)  new,  of  Thompson  of  Trinity.  He 
remarked,  that  of  the  ordinary  Undergraduate  it  might  perhaps 
be  said,  that  he  "  hated  knowledge  for  its  own  sake."  .  .  .  Love 
and  blessings  to  you  all,  including  Trixy  and  Charley.  Your 
imbecile  critic,  but  faithful  friend,  '  Alfred  Ainger.' 

In  the  autumn  he  returned  to  London,  and  later,  together 
with  liis  family,  moved  into  his  new  quarters.  The  dignified 
Master's  House,  so  long  aheady  a  home  to  him,  was  now  to 
become  really  his.  No  other  house  in  London  would  have 
made  so  fit  a  setting  for  his  figure,  and  he  never  ceased  to 
take  pleasure  in  its  four  walls  and  all  that  surrounded  them. 


LETTERS  271 

Henceforth  his  existence  shaped  itself,  both  in  its  work  and 
its  play,  as  it  was  to  remain  to  the  end.  Money  difficulties 
were  by  this  time  practically  removed  from  his  path,  and  the 
obligation  to  write  or  to  lecture  was  no  longer  pressing. 
Thus,  though  the  number  of  committees  and  public  functions 
that  devolved  on  him  increased,  the  leisure  that  he  had  was 
more  unburdened  ;  and  the  hours  that  he  spent  in  his  library, 
the  library  of  a  loving  reader  rather  than  a  collector,  could 
now  be  times  of  pure  enjoyment,  unhampered  by  thoughts 
utilitarian.  It  was  to  the  sermons  which,  in  virtue  of  his 
office,  he  preached  on  Sunday  mornings,  that  he  now  devoted 
his  best  literary  powers,  and  more  and  more  did  they  become 
the  main  object  of  his  life.  When  he  reappeared  in  the 
Temple  pulpit  as  the  Temple's  Master,  he  felt  considerable 
nervousness,  as  he  tells  us  in  the  note  that  follows.  The 
letters  that  succeed  it  take  up  as  usual  the  thread  of  his  daily 
impressions. 

To  Mb.  Horace  Smith. 

'  November  13,  1894. 

'  I  greatly  hope  to  meet  you  to-morrow  at  the  Banquet — and  if 
so,  I  want  to  save  my  credit  by  first  thanking  you  for  your  most 
kind  letter  of  last  week.  I  know  you  to  be  a  man  of  your  word 
— and  not  given  (any  more  than  /  ain,  I  hope)  to  rave  and  gush 
— so  I  was  the  more  grateful  for  your  words  about  the  sermon, 
which  was  indeed  a  difficult  one,  both  to  write  and  to  deliver.  I 
am  greatly  relieved  that  it  is  over,  and  that  my  kind  friends  are 
good  enough  to  think  I  did  not  wholly  fail.  To-morrow's  ordeal, 
by  the  way,  will  be  nearly  as  bad,  and  I  trust  you  are  coming  to 
support  me  under  the  trial.  I  hope  the  congregations  are  going 
to  keep  up.  Last  Sunday  it  was  as  crowded  as  the  previous  one, 
if  not  more  so.  .  .  . 

To  Mu.  Mowbray  Donne. 

'  The  Athen^um, 
'  Pall  Mall,  S.  W.,  Sunday  afternoon,  Dec.  23,  1894. 

'Mv  DEAR  Mowbray, — All  good  wishes  of  the  season  to  you 
and  yours  !     I   had  an  idea  till  I  met  your  wife  the  other  day. 


272         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

that  you  had  already  resigned.  I  thought  you  expired  with  the 
current  year,  and  I  was  waiting  to  congratulate  you  on  coming 
out  of  the  shafts  until  that  date  should  have  arrived.  But  now, 
O  Superannuated  Man,  I  beg,  though  late,  to  offer  my  best 
felicitations — only  don't  be  unhappy  at  having  nothing  to  do,  and 
take  to  dr-nk-ng,  like  dear  Charles  Lamb. 

'  Mind  you  come  up  to  luncheon  on  Boxing  Day — when  you 
will  find  "cold  beef,  and  a  tankard."  A  propos  of  the  festive 
season,  I  have  just  heard  an  unpublished  story  of  Dr.  Johnson. 
A  lady  asked  him  within  what  limits  of  time  it  was  right  to  eat 
mince-pies.  "  Good  Heavens  !  Madam,  did  any  one  ever  hear 
of  such  gross  ignorance  !  They  come  in  with  "  O  Sapientia  "  and 
go  out  with  the  "  Purification."  .  .  .  I  made  a  good  reply  once 
about  mince-pies.  Some  one  said  he  ate  one  every  day  for  luck; 
and  I  replied  "  Tantum  Religio  potuit  suadere  malorum  !  "  ' 


To  Mrs.  Smith. 

'  Christmas  Eve,  1894. 

'My  dear  Friend, — With  the  increase  of  care  and  responsibility 
that  lies  upon  me,  owing  to  my  elevation  to  the  highly  honourable 
office  to  which  I  have  been  lately  promoted — together  with  the 
natural  melancholy  of  even  appearing  to  my  valued  friends  and 
acquaintances  to  be  a  bloated  Pluralist — I  am  sure  you  will  not 
expect  from  me  the  childlike  levity  and  frivolity  with  which  I 
have  been  hitherto  accustomed  to  address  my  friends  at  Brocco 
Bank  on  this  anniversary.  So  that  you  will  kindly  be  content 
this  time  with  a  few  seasonable  reflections.  .   .   . 

'  Let  us  inquire  (for  it  can  never  be  amiss  to  cultivate,  even  in 
the  holiday  season,  that  quickness  and  readiness  of  perception 
which  are  so  necessary  a  part  of  education  for  practical  life) — 
what  is  the  difference  between  a  gardener,  a  billiard-marker,  and 
a  gentleman,  and  a  cathedral  verger — Now  don't  speak  all  at 
once,  especially  when  eating  vulcanised  greengages,  or  the 
soothing  banana — but  serenely  and  thoughtfully  consider  the 
following : — 

'  The  gardener  attends  to  his  Peas  ;  the  Billiard-marker  to  his 
Ciies ;  the  gentleman  to  his  Peas  and  Cues ;  and  the  verger  to  his 
Pews  and  Keys. 

Chorus:  Oh!  there's  no  longer  any  doubt  about  the  matter! 
He 's  out  of  his  mind  !  And  his  recent  Promotion  has  been  too 
much  for  his  poor  brain.' 


LETTERS  273 

To  Mr.  Horace  Smith. 

'Master's  House,  Temple,  E,C. 

*  Wordsworth  (up  to  date). 

'  Concluding  stanza  to  his  beautiful  poem  called  The 
Daffodils. 

'  "  But  when  of  late  I  went  again 

To  glad  me  with  the  vernal  show  ; 
Beecham  and  Co.  possessed  the  plain, 
Board  after  board,  in  hideous  row — 
And  now  my  gorge  with  horror  fills 
And  rises  at  those  Liver-Pills." 

'  By  the  way,  my  gorge  rises  for  another  reason  !  I  have  got  a 
dear  dog,  who  is  to  me  "as  a  daughter" — (that  is,  he  would  be, 
were  he  a  B-tch)  and  I  have  just  been  obliged  to  send  him  into 
the  country  for  change  of  air  and  exercise,  because  your  two 
Hon.  Societies  won't  let  me  take  him  for  a  run  in  the  Temple 
gardens  !  They  say  (Lawyer-like)  that  it  would  be  "  creating  a 
precedent."  Ha!  Ha!  They  don't  use  the  gardens  themselves, 
and  won't  let  me  and  my  dog  !  I  deeply  regret  to  say  that  the 
following  was  lately  picked  up  in  King's  Bench  Walk : — 

'  "  There  are  worse  dogs  than  Cauou  A-ng-r's, 
— The  dogs  who  lie  and  snarl  in  mangers." 

*  The  unhappy  author  has  as  yet  escaped  detection  ! 

'  Meanwhile  I  hope  the  one  Reasonable  B-nch-r,  and  his 
delightful  family,  are  well  and  thriving.  Mind  you  come  to  the 
next  Grand  Day,  or  I  shall  denounce  you  from  the  Pulpit, 

'  Goodbye,  sweetheart,  goodbye. 

'  I  go  to  Bristol  on  Monday  for  two  or  three  days  on  Cathedral 

Business. 

'Your  own  unhappy  "  Master," 
Whom  unmerciful  disaster. 
In  the  matter  of  his  poor  dog  Tray, 
Follows  fast  and  follows  faster.' 

'A.  AiNGER.' 

In  1895,  Canon  Ainger  was  made  Honorary  Chaplain  to  the 
Queen  and,  in  the  following  year,  one  of  her  Chaplains  in 
Ordinary,  He  had  an  innocent  love  for  his  honours.  He 
delighted  in  insignia — in  his  robes,  in  the  pomp  and  circum- 
stance of  office.  And  none  enjoyed  more  than  he  the  dignity 
of  going,  as  he  once  did,  to  preach  in  state  before  the  Queen 

s 


274         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

at  Windsor.  New  interests  were  transforming  his  daily  life, 
and  besides  his  clerical  business  he  had  other  public  engage- 
ments which  brought  him  fresh  duties  and  pleasures.  One 
function  of  his  London  life  that  he  liked  was  serving  on 
certain  committees,  especially  those  of  the  London  Library 
and  of  the  Literary  Fund,  at  which  he  met  men  of  mark  and 
fellow-spirits.  He  came  to  regard  them  almost  as  men's 
parties — his  favourite  form  of  entertainment — and  was  at  his 
best  when  he  attended  them,  enlivening  their  routine  with 
sudden  sallies  and  doing  hard  work  as  well.  Authors  and 
their  affairs  always  interested  him,  as  these  notes  to  Mr.  Gosse 
suffice  to  show. 

To  Mr.  Gosse. 

'  Master's  House, 
*  Temple,  Saturday,  May  11,  1895. 

'My  dear  Gosse, —  ...  I  am  quite  with  you  "in  essence"  on 
the  greedy  author  question,  but  you  must  have  known  you  would 
bring  them — may  I  say — on  their  hind  legs.  But  the  idea  of  the 
Authors'  Society  ^  that  they  are  bound  (by  their  Charter)  to  rise 
and  protect  the  British  novelist  from  slander,  is  too  funny ;  and 
the  Tailors  of  Tooley  Street  are  now  quite  out  of  it ! ' 

'Richmond  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,  Bristol. 

'  Goose  {Eihnund), —  The  letters  of  Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes.  Now 
^rsi  edited.  Pott  8vo.,  5s.  net,  also  25  copies  large  paper,  lis.  6d. 
net. 

'(To  my  friend  Edmund  Gosse — on  the  latest  Betise  of  J.  L.) 

*  I  wonder  if  you  've  seen,  dear  Gosse, 
This  last  faux-pas  of  John's — 
Take  comfort — 'tis  your  gain,  not  loss — 
His  geese  were  always  swans  ! 


A.  A. 


'Sept.  10,  1895.' 


^  At  this  time,  a  certain  reaction  against  the  constant  attacks  of  the  Society 
of  Authors  upon  the  whole  race  of  publishers,  was  marked  by  a  speech  in  which 
Mr.  Gosse  warned  novelists  against  pushing  their  claims  for  money  too  far. 
The  Society  of  Authors  was  very  angry,  and  there  was  a  correspondence  about 
the  matter  in  The  Times  and  elsewhere. 


LETTERS  275 

To  Mr.  Gosse. 

'  Richmond  House, 
'Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  Monday,  [Summer  1895]. 

'  My  dear  Gosse, —  ...  I  have  been  thinking  of  late  about 
something  that  passed  at  a  recent  Committee  of  the  Literary 
Fund.  It  was  generally  admitted  that  the  right  cases  for  our 
Bounty  do  not,  and  will  not,  apply  in  person.  Would  it  be  possible 
so  far  to  modify  our  rules,  that  intimate  and  trustworthy  friends 
might  apply  in  their  names ;  and  that  the  grants  might  be  thus 
volunteered  on  our  part,  and  not  given  as  the  result  of  a  direct 
appeal  ? 

' "  Perpend,"  and  let  me  know. — Yours  always  sincerely, 

'Alfred  Ainger. 

'  I  hope  I  succeeded  in  disabusing  our  good  Lord  de  Tabley  of 
any  idea  that  he  was  otherwise  to  me  than  a  persotia  gratissima. 
It  was  quite  a  charming  meeting  on  that  lovely  day  in  those 
Whitehall  Gardens.' 

'Lord  de  Tabley,  the  poet,'  writes  Mr.  Gosse,  'had  a  great 
wish  to  know  Ainger.  I,  as  their  common  friend,  urged  De 
Tabley  to  speak  to  the  Canon,  and  he  did  so,  when  they  met  next 
at  the  Athenaeum,  in  April  1895.  Unfortunately  Lord  de  Tabley 
was  excessively  nervous  and  shy,  and  Ainger  did  not  quite  under- 
stand who  it  was  who  was  addressing  him.  The  poet  was  hurt, 
and  wrote  to  me,  "  I  got  on  but  little  with  Ainger,  and  he  snubbed 
me  considerably."  The  result  of  reproaching  Ainger  for  this  cruel 
conduct  was  an  indignant  denial  of  the  charge.  The  only  thing 
to  do  was  to  ask  them  to  meet  one  another  at  lunch  in  Whitehall, 
and  this  was  successfully  brought  about  on  the  14th  of  June.  It 
is  of  this  little  party  that  Ainger  speaks  in  this  letter.  Besides 
Ainger,  de  Tabley,  and  the  host,  Mr.  Austin  Dobson,  Sir 
Courtenay  Ilbert,  and  Mr.  Horatio  Brown  of  Venice  were  of  the 
company.  As  the  weather  was  exquisitely  fine,  the  table  was 
spread  in  the  garden,  under  a  great  hawthorn  tree.  Ainger, 
from  the  fact  of  his  having  to  wipe  off  a  supposed  stain  upon  his 
manners,  was  particularly  bewitching.  He  outdid  himself  in 
anecdote,  in  repartee,  in  the  graceful  give  and  take  of  animated 
conversation  ;  and  the  little  alfresco  entertainment,  prolonged  over 
coffee  and  cigarettes,  lasted  far  into  the  afternoon.  Lord  de 
Tabley,  in  going,  made  a  little  appealing  apology.  "  The  fault," 
he  said  "  was  solely  mine  ;  I  have  lost  all  habit  of  society  and  am 


276         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

as  an  owl  in  the  haunts  of  man."  They  parted  the  best  of  friends, 
promising  one  another  many  talks  in  the  future,  but  de  Tabley 
was  already  rapidly  failing  in  health,  and  they  never  met  again. 
He  died  in  November  of  the  same  year.' 

The  correspondence  begins  again  with  some  letters  of  that 
summer  to  Mr.  Groome  and  Mr.  du  Maurier. 

*  Richmond  House, 
'Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  August  9,  1895. 

*  Dear  Mr.  Groome, — Some  weeks  ago  I  received  from  your 
Publishers  a  copy  of  your  delightful  book.  Two  Suffolk  Friends, 
and  though  it  only  bore  the  inscription  "  with  the  Publisher's 
compliments,"  I  feel  sure  that  it  was  sent  at  your  suggestion,  and 
I  therefore  wish  to  return  you  my  hearty  thanks.  It  is  one  of 
the  too  few  reprints  from  magazines  that  amply  deserve  the 
compliment,  and  I  find  myself  constantly  turning  to  it  again,  and 
laughing  afresh  over  the  Suffolk  anecdotes,  or — weeping  afresh,  I 
had  almost  said — over  "The  Only  Darter,"  which  is  an  absolutely 
perfect  thing.  How  thankful  one  should  be  for  such  a  piece  of 
tender,  human  experience,  after  the  wretched  hysterical  and 
prurient  stuff  of  the  "Yellow  Book"  people.  .  .  .  With  many 
thanks  and  kind  regards,  yours  very  sincerely, 

'Alfred  Ainger. 

'  And  it  made  my  heart  leap  to  find  the  book  dedicated  to  my 
dear  old  friend,  Mowbray  Donne.' 

'  Richmond  House, 
'Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  \^Summer  1895]. 

'  Mv  DEAREST  KicKV, — I  was  delighted  to  get  your  letter,  and 
to  hear  you  were  being  so  well  done  by  in  the  watering-place  of 
my  youth  ;  don't  write  to  say  by  and  by  that  you  are  being 
"  bored  and  lodged  " — which  I  fear  you  will,  unless  the  weather 
improves,  and  the  Jews  and  Jewesses  leave  their  promised  land. 
We  are  very  wet  and  unsettled  here,  and  the  effect  in  this 
western  country  upon  the  spirits  is  indescribable.  I  read  in  the 
Tirnes  every  day  that  "another  depression  is  approaching" — but 
I  can  assure  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather  that  it  is  here  already,  and 
all  day  long. 

'I  have  just  read  dear  Guthrie's  " Country  of  Cockaigne,"  in 
to-day's  Punch,  and  it  is  simply  exquisite — as  perfect  as  anything 


LETTERS  277 

he  ever  did — and  made  me  cry  in  the  loneliness  of  my  own  study 
here;  not  with  an  uneasy  conscience,  either;  for  I  have  sub- 
scribed for  many  years  to  this  admirable  Society.  I  cannot  but 
think  this  Paper  will  go  to  many  hearts  and  fetch  in  subscriptions 
and  donations.  I  should  like  him  to  know  how  I  love  him  for 
it! 

*  You  are  very  good  this  week — though  your  satire  on  the 
Schoolmaster  is  not  quite  just.  A  Public  School  ought  not  to  have 
to  teach  spelhng,  or  to  undertake  such  a  thing.  The  boy's 
ignorance  was  either  the  fault  of  the  Parents,  Governess,  and 
preparatory  school — or  the  boy  was  one  of  those  creatures  (there 
are  some  such)  who  can't  be  taught  to  spell. 

'  Don't  forget  the  "  knot  in  the  handkerchief."  How  is  Arthur 
Davies  ? — 

"  Well  fed  and  nursed,  at  last  it  burst, 
Within  that  silent  sea." 

'  Give  my  dear  love  to  you  all.  I  am  jokeless  here,  and  have 
to  make  them  all  myself.  I  am  touched  by  your  choosing 
"  Clifton  Gardens  "  as  your  address.  It  is  another  link  between 
us. 

'  I  do  hope  Miss  Baird  ^  will  be  up  to  the  mark — let  me  hear. 
Your  own  Canon,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

'  Richmond  House, 
'  Clifton  Hill,  Bristol,  Saturday,  Sept.  7,  1895. 

'  Dearest  Kicky, — Thanks  for  your  last  note.  I  hope  you  are 
getting  stouter,  stronger,  wiser  and  better,  for  your  sojourn 
among  the  men  of  Kent.  I  see  that  Trilbi/  is  to  be  brought  out 
to-night  at  Manchester.  Do,  Do  send  me  a  line  to  tell  me  of  its 
reception  and  prospects,  and  how  Miss  Baird  acquitted  herself. 
I  have  read  the  story  again  since  I  have  been  here — with  increased 
delight  at  three-fourths  of  it,  and  increased  regrets  for  some 
other  things.  But  Trilby  herself  is  the  charm  of  the  book  and  a 
KTrjfia  es  aci. 

'  No  stories,  no  jokes — no  nothing. 

'  Frenchrnayi  entering  a  rather  crowded  railway  cnrriage :  ''Ah! 
mille  pardons  !     I  'ope  I  do  not  cock-roach  !  " 

'  'Arry  in  the  corner. — "  Hignorant  hass  !    He  means  hen-croach." 

'  I  know  you  like  Puns  (calembours,  in  French). 

'  I  begin  to  see  daylight,  for  this  is  September  7th,  and  at  the 

*  In  the  performance  of  Trilby  as  a  play. 


278         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

end  of  the  month  I  am  a  free  man  !  It  is  very  hot  here^  and  last 
night  we  had  a  lively  thunder-storm.  When  do  you  return  to 
Oxfoi'd  Square  ?  Write  me  if  but  a  line  about  Trilhy — and  tell 
me  if  the  little  ex-linen-draper  took  the  role  of  Little  Billee. — 
Best  love  to  you  all,  your  own  Canon  Residentiary,  A.  A.' 

'  Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.G.,  Wednesday  Evening,  Dec.  4,  1895. 

'  My  dear  Kicky, — I  really  did  enjoy  myself  last  evening.  Of 
course  the  Play  is  a  ridiculous  Parody  on  the  Novel,  but  to  me 
who  had  previously  read  the  story,  it  of  course  suggested  and 
reminded  me  at  evei*y  turn  of  the  dear  Characters  and  the  dear 
Pictures. 

'  The  acting,  too,  was  better  than  I  expected.  Miss  Baird  has 
not  indeed  a  spark  of  genius,  or  even  of  talent  (I  think),  but  she 
looks  it  to  perfection,  and  being  a  lady,  U7ider  does,  instead  of  over 
doing,  the  Bohemianism.  Tree  is  as  clever  as  possible,  but  it  is 
of  course  melodrama  of  the  most  Transpontine  order.  Lionel 
Brough  would  be  very  good,  if  only  his  Scotch  dialect  were  a  little 
better.  I  thought  the  comic  clergyman  very  good,  and  cannot  but 
think  he  toned  himself  doivn  last  night,  out  of  respect  to  my  august 
presence.  How  well  Henry  Kemble  would  have  played  the  part ! 
I  fancy  this  man  bases  his  style  rather  on  Kemble.  I  laughed 
heartily  at  the  incident  of  the  Laird  and  the  Pantomime  nose, 
which  is  not  in  the  book.  Altogether  I  enjoyed  myself  very  much, 
and  should  not  mind  seeing  it  over  again. — Love  to  you  all,  your 
own  Canon.' 

*  The  Glade, 
'  Branch  Hill,  Hampstead,  Wednesday,  March  14,  189G. 

'  My  dear  Kicky, — I  was  an  idiot  yesterday :  I  had  entirely 
forgotten  that  you  wouldn't  be  at  home ;  and  when  I  found  that 
your  young  people  were  out,  I  resolved  not  to  stay — though  your 
admirable  cook  informed  me  that  during  the  few  minutes  I  was 
in  the  house,  she  had  "  put  down  another  chop  "  for  the  unde- 
serving visitor  !  I  had  to  be  in  town  that  morning,  consulting  a 
new  Doctor  (Felix  Semon — jnif  agreahle .')  so  that  I  did  not  quite 
come  into  town  for  nothing.  I  think  I  shall  hardly  be  able  to 
repeat  my  visit  till  Tuesday  next— when  I  hope  for  long  arrears  of 
talk. 

'  I  was  at  Toynbee  Hall  on  Monday.     Dining  and  "  reading  a 


LETTERS  279 

Paper,"  and  heard  from  all  quarters  enthusiastic  commendation  of 
your  Lecture.     You  may  be  quite  satisfied  of  that,  and  of  the 

delight  it  gave.     I  don't  fancy  you  will  have  a  letter  fi*om 

/  never  do — and  indeed  I  think  that  the  "  vote  of  thanks  "  to  the 
Lecturer  at  the  end  is  supposed  to  cancel  all  the  rest.  I  think 
this  is  a  mistake.  But  they  are  so  possessed  with  the  idea  at 
Toynbee  that  it  is  the  duty  of  the  "  Better-off"  to  do  these  things 
("and  1  don't  denige  it^  Betsy/')  that  thanks  are  hai'dly  due! 
But  I  think  this  is  an  error  of  judgment  and  of  policy. 

'  The  edge  of  Tenniel's  cartoon  is  rather  taken  off  by  the  fact 
that  the  "Star  of  Tournament"  was  sprawled  in  the  dust  by  his 
own  Party  last  night — his  "  second  appearance  "  on  these  Boards. 
— Ever  your  true  and  trusty  Alfred  Ainger. 

'  I  am  sending  Frank  a  suggestion  for  next  Big  Cut — sequel  to 
this  week's — Rosebery  on  the  ground,  prodded  by  Labouchere 
and  the  Irish.  Quotation:  "So  like  a  shattered  column  lay  the 
King." 

'  Title  :  "  Sorry  we  spoke."  ' 

This  is  the  last  letter  that  we  have  from  Ainger  to  du 
Maurier,  though  they  met  many  times  after  it  was  written. 
Through  their  fifteen  years  of  close  companionship,  their  inter- 
course had  never  suffered  a  break.  They  met  constantly  at 
one  another's  houses,  whether  in  London  or  in  Hampstead,  and 
this  year  they  were  together  at  Whitby. 

'Mv  DEAR  Ainger' — (du  Maurier  had  written  to  his  friend,  who 
was  there,  but  without  him,  for  the  first  time  in  1891) — 'It  is 
delightful  to  get  a  letter  from  you  at  Whitby — the  place  we  all 
like  the  best  in  the  world.  I  am  only  sorry  you  have  so  little 
time  there. 

"It's  all  right  when  you  know  it, 
But  you  've  got  to  kuow  it  fust." 

'  But  I  gather  that  your  nieces  and  Mr.  Evans  will  remain 
longer,  so  tell  them  to  drive  to  Robin  Hood's  Bay,  and  Runswick 
and  Staithes  (unless  they  prefer  going  there  by  train) ;  tell  them 
especially  to  manage  Staithes,  circa  4,  5,  6  p.m.,  a  little  before 
high  tide,  to  see  some  40  (or  50)  cobles  disembark  to  herring-fish, 
with  all  the  town,  women  and  children,  pushing  the  boats  off — 
the  loveliest  sight  I  ever  saw  !  Tell  them  to  walk  to  Cock  Mill ; 
there  are  3  or  4  ways — one  by  the  old  town,  one  by  Bagdale, 


280         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

one  through  the  meadows  over  the  wooden  railway  bridge,  from 
the  top  of  St.  Hilda's  Terrace.  Tell  them  to  walk  from  Cock 
Mill  to  Rig  Mill,  and  take  tea  at  the  latter  place  (and  have  a 
fly  ready  to  take  them  back).  Tell  them  to  walk  along  the  cliffs 
westward  from  the  Spa,  through  fields  and  over  stiles  till  they 
reach  Sylvia  Robson's  cottage  (of  course  they  know  their  Sylvia's 
Lovers  by  heart) — and  tell  them,  oh  !  tell  them,  to  stand  on  the 
bridge  at  sundown  and  see  the  shops  lighting  up  along  the 
staitheSj  and  the  fisher-boats  (if  the  tide  suits)  go  sailing  out  into 
the  west.  Also  they  must  not  forget  that  Saturday  is  market  day, 
and  that  the  market  place  in  the  old  town  is  good  to  see  on 
Saturdays. 

*  Don't  forget  as  you  go  past  the  top  of  St.  Hilda's  Terrace  to 
look  at  No.  1,  the  humble  but  singularly  charming  little  house 
where  your  friends  have  dwelt,  and  would  fain  dwell  again  (and 
two  of  them  end  their  days  there,  somewhere  towards  the  middle 
of  the  twentieth  century).' 

Ainger  always  saw  the  place  through  du  Maurier's  eyes. 
He  and  his  nieces  and  Mr.  Evans,  who  had  lost  his  wife 
in  1891,  joined  the  du  Mauriers  there  in  1896.  Ainger 
liked  nothing  better  than  to  go  on  exploring  excursions  to 
Yorkshire  villages ;  and  he  only  made  one  condition — that 
they  should  end  in  what  was  always  to  him  the  ideal  treat, 
tea  at  some  wayside  inn.  '  Do  let  us  have  a  "  Cow  and  Tooth- 
brush "  (or  a  "  Cat  and  Snuffers "")  expedition  to-day,'  was  his 
constant  refrain.  Of  the  contests  of  wit  and  drollery  en  route, 
of  their  races  to  reach  the  inn  first  and  earn  the  quixotic 
privilege  of  '  treating '  the  whole  party  to  tea,  many  legends 
still  sui'vive ;  and  once  they  were  all  delighted  by  seeing 
'Trilby  Drops'  advertised  for  sale  in  a  little  village  sweet- 
shop. '  Such  is  fame,'  said  du  Maurier,  but  when  his  daughter 
went  in  to  ask  about  the  '  drops,'  the  girl  behind  the  counter 
had  no  idea  what '  Trilby '  meant. 

Du  Manner's  health  was  failing,  though  he  hardly  knew  to 
what  extent.  '  It  is  only  in  going  uphill  that  one  realises 
how  fast  one  is  going  downhill,'  he  once  said,  half  in  fun,  half 
ruefully,  as  he  toiled  up  a  steep  Whitby  hill ;  and  when  the 
news  came  of  Millais'  death,  and  he  was  asked  to  be  pall-bearer, 
he  refused  on  the  score  of  his  weakness.     By  that  time,  too, 


LETTERS  281 

his  eyesight  had  almost  gone.  It  was  happy  for  him  that, 
just  as  this  tragedy  approached,  there  dawned  for  him  also 
his  unexpected  success  as  a  writer.  '  I  think  the  best  years  of 
a  man's  life  are  after  forty.  A  man  at  forty  has  ceased  to 
haunt  the  moon,'  so  he  once  said,  and  his  luck  justified  the 
saying.  But  his  modesty,  like  the  modesty  of  Ainger,  was 
one  of  his  chief  distinctions.  '  This  boom  rather  distresses  me 
when  I  reflect  that  Thackeray  never  had  a  boom,'  he  remarked 
after  Trilby  appeared.  The  boom  did  not  distress  Ainger — 
indeed,  for  him,  the  prestige  of  his  '  dear  artist'  illumined  the 
last  years  of  their  friendship.  For  last  years  they  were.  The 
end  was  fast  approaching.  Early  in  October,  George  du 
Maurier  fell  ill,  and  on  Wednesday  evening,  the  8th,  he  died 
— that  evening  of  Punch,  round  the  mahogany  tree,  which  he 
had  made  peculiarly  his  own. 

He  had  once  said  half  playfully  that  he  should  like  his 
'  little  Canon '  to  read  the  funeral  service  over  him,  because  he 
would  do  it  so  beautifully.  And  Ainger  fulfilled  his  wish. 
His  own  strong  conviction  of  an  after-life  strengthened  him  to 
do  this  for  more  than  one  close  friend.  And  if  this  was  a 
faith  that  du  Maurier  had  not  shared,  he  knew  how  to 
reverence  it  in  his  companion. 

Ainger  was  not  the  man  to  write  elegies.  He  had  no  taste 
for  oratory,  especially  the  oratory  of  sorrow.  The  paper  on 
du  Maurier  which  he  wrote  in  the  Hampstead  Annual  is 
marked  by  a  delicate  restraint.  But  it  has  its  own  kind  of 
eloquence. 

*  As  a  friend,'  he  writes,  '  as  also  in  the  realm  of  humorous 
art,  his  loss  is  irreparable.  Substituting  the  name  of  Hamp- 
stead for  that  of  Cambridge,  one  may  i-ecall  the  touching  lines 
of  Cowley  on  the  death  of  his  friend,  Mr.  William  Hervey  : — 

'  Ye  fields  of  Hampstead,  our  dear  Hampstead,  say, 
Have  ye  not  seen  us  walking  every  day  ? 
Was  there  a  tree  about  which  did  not  know 
The  love  betwixt  us  two  ? 

'  Henceforth,  ye  gentle  trees,  for  ever  fade, 
Or  your  sad  branches  thicker  join. 
And  into  darksome  shades  combine, 
Dark  as  the  grave  wherein  my  friend  is  laid.' 


CHAPTER    XVI 

LIFE    AND    LETTERS 

1897-1903 

In  1897,  Alfred  Ainger  turned  sixty,  but  liis  friends  found  few 
changes  either  in  his  outer  or  his  inner  man.     He  had  little  of 
any  age  about  him,  and  the  sketch  given  of  him  at  thirty, 
when  he  stood  on  the  threshold  of  his  career,  hardly  needs  any 
alteration.      A    recent  description    of  him  in  a  letter  from 
Mr.    Beck,   the   present   Master   of  Trinity  Hall   and   Vice- 
Chancellor  of  the  University  of  Cambridge,  would  have  por- 
trayed him  as  truly  at  any  moment  since  he  came  to  London. 
'  He  was  so  snow-white  in  locks,'  runs  the  passage,  '  and   so 
petit,  craned  forward,  and  ethereal,  like  a  gnome  or  a  spirit 
peering  with  an  elf-like  enquiry  out  of  the  infinite  for  a  brief 
and  amused  moment,  that  I  doubt  if  even  Mr.  Riviere  could 
catch  him  ^ — an  allusion  to  the  picture  which  that  artist  was 
then  making  of  him.     Perhaps  he  looked  at  his  best  in  the 
velvet  coats  he  wore  at  home — a  best  coat  for  company,  or,  for 
solitude,  what  he  called  his  '  organ-grinder.''     He  was  never 
rich,   nor   would    it    have    suited    him  to   be  so,    except  for 
purposes  of  giving.     For  though  he  was  alive  to  comfort  and 
liked   dignity  of  surroundings,  his   habits    remained  of  the 
simplest.     That  he  felt  he  could  no  longer  '  ride  on  the  top 
of  an  omnibus"'  was  his  one  regret  when  he  was  made  Master, 
and  though  far  from  callous  to  good  food   or  good  wine,  he 
disliked  any  luxury  that  made  itself  felt.     '  I  cannot  go  to  the 

\  house,"'  he  once  said, '  it  smells  so  disgustingly  of  riches.' 

The  Temple  was  the  ideal  setting  for  his  character  as  well  as 
his  figure — and  the  Temple  claimed  him  for  her  own ;  not 
alone  her  '  polished  corners  "'  within,  but  her  outer  courts :  the 
Benchers"'  Hall,  the  legal  purlieus  that  he  loved,  the  many  un- 

282 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS  283 

expected  corners,  Goldsmith's  tomb  near  the  Church — all  the 
urban  calm  of  the  place,  with  the  roaring  traffic  of  the  Strand 
at  a  stone"'s-throw.     The  Temple  is  still  one  of  the  few  places 
left  for  habits  to  grow  up  in ;  and  Canon  Ainger  was  made 
for  habits.     There  every  one  knew  him  and  he  knew  every 
one  :  the  old  porter,  for  whom  he  so  often  took  sandwiches, 
pretending  he  wanted  them  himself;  the  vergers,  the  plumbers 
on  the  church  roof,  the  German  bandsmen,  whom  he  tried  to 
persuade  to  play  Schubert ;  tlie  newspaper-boy  from  whom  he 
regularly  bought  his  evening  paper  and  who  called  him  his 
'  best  friend  "* ;  the  blind  beggar  near  the  Embankment,  whom 
he  could  not  pass  without  an  alms  and  who  never  failed  to 
know  that  he  was  there,  because  of  his  voice.     These  accus- 
tomed charities  made  a  network  which  grew  stronger  with 
every  year  of  his  life  at  the  Temple.     As  for  his  servants,  it  is 
not   exaggeration  to  say  that  they  adored  him.     No  more 
generous  master  existed,  and  his  faith  in  family  life  opened  his 
heart  to  their  needs.     He  knew  all  their  domestic  affairs ;   he 
helped  their  relations  and  invited  them  to  stay  in  his  house. 
And  the  one  thing  that  aroused  his  severity  was  to  hear  them 
blamed    before   other  people.      His  life,  indeed,  was  full   of 
courtesies — little  deeds  of  fidelity  which  he  performed  wherever 
he  might  be ;  the  Times  sent  every  day  for  thirty  years  to  his 
friend  in  the  country,  fastened  up  by  himself  with  the  same 
thud,  at  the  same  moment  after  luncheon,  as  he  stamped  its 
cover  upon  the  floor ;  the  papers  and  the   letters — and   the 
bank-notes — despatched  with  unfailing  punctuality  to  those 
left   behind   by   life — invalids,  governesses,  the  humble,   the 
depressed  :    these   may  be  small   things,  but  they   made  the 
happiness  of  many. 

More  than  one  career  was  set  going  by  some  unknown  kind- 
ness from  him.  He  delighted  in  helping  boys  to  start  in  life, 
or  giving  a  hand  to  some  one  who  was  down  on  his  luck.  Of 
more  public  enterprises  he  also  took  his  share,  devoting  his 
time  and  money  to  a  few  charities  that  he  cared  for — to  the 
People's  Concert  Society,  for  which  he  often  spoke ;  to  the 
Children's  Country  Holiday  Fund  ;  to  King's  College  Hospital, 
of  whose  Committee  he  was  a  faithful  member;  and,  foremost, 


284         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

to  the  Inns  ot  Court  Mission.  This  was  the  philanthropic 
work  which  most  appealed  to  him  and  to  which  he  gave  his 
best  efforts.  Its  Warden,  the  Rev.  G.  D.  Latham,  has  left  us 
a  record  of  what  he  was  to  the  Mission. 

'  Holding/  he  writes,  '  the  commanding  position  that  he  held, 
in  the  Church  and  in  the  legal  world,  a  word  from  him  would  at 
any  time,  but  more  especially  in  its  early  and  struggling  days, 
have  gone  far  to  leave  upon  the  Inns  of  Court  Mission  any  impress 
that  he  desired.  The  temptation  to  speak  that  word,  not  once, 
but  many  times,  must  have  been  strong  to  a  man  of  his  ripe  ex- 
perience, keen  mind,  and  quick  imagination,  as  he  watched  a 
young  and  untried  man  take  charge  of  an  enterprise  which  was 
meant  by  its  founders  to  represent  the  best  side  of  a  great  profes- 
sion when  organised  for  social  and  religious  .  .  .  purposes;  an 
enterprise  which  was  bound  to  affect  profoundly  the  prestige  of 
the  Law  and  of  the  Church  among  the  working-classes  of  a  certain 
district.  To  stand  aside,  and  never  once  to  interfere  with  the 
detailed  workings  of  such  an  organisation,  though  exercising  to  the 
full  his  rightful  responsibility  in  the  shaping  of  its  broad  outlines 
and  policy,  required  no  little  self-control.  .  .  .  His  support  was 
strong  and  unfailing.  .  .  .  On  occasions  he  came  to  Drury  Lane, 
and  chatted  to  the  working  men  who  filled  the  Institute,  entering 
with  zest  into  the  club-interests  which  were  so  strangely  different 
from  the  ordinary  things  of  his  life.  On  the  evening  of  one 
Easter  Day  he  came  and  preached  at  the  Mission  Service ;  few  of 
those  who  were  there  will  forget  him  as  he  stood,  a  slight  and 
swaying  figure,  speaking  quite  simply,  but  with  the  spirit  of  earnest- 
ness and  reality  which  always  characterised  him  in  his  preaching. 
One  of  the  congregation  was  a  deaf  girl,  who  said  afterwards  that 
his  was  the  only  preaching  that  she  had  been  able  to  hear  for 
years.  .  .  .  Perhaps  his  greatest  opportunities  for  manifesting  an 
effective  interest  in  the  work  of  the  Mission  arose  out  of  his 
position  as  a  member  of  the  governing  body  of  the  Mission,  both 
on  the  Council  and  on  the  Executive  Committee  of  the  Council. 
He  was  a  member  of  both  of  these  bodies  from  the  first  until  the 
end,  and,  unless  prevented  from  being  present  by  insuperable 
difficulties,  never  failed  to  attend  their  meetings,  or  to  take  an 
active  and  important  part  in  their  deliberations  ;  while  no  thought 
of  personal  convenience  or  inconvenience  was  ever  allowed  to 
interfere  with  his  placing  the  Master's  House  in  the  Temple  at 
the  disposal  of  the  Committee  for  its  gatherings.' 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS  285 

One  of  the  last  things  that  he  planned  was  a  reading  for  the 
Mission's  benefit;  but  illness  interfered  and  his  project  was 
not  fulfilled. 

Ainger  kept  a  young  man's  power  of  making  new  friends, 
and  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life  brought  him  fresh  intimacies, 
as  well  as  many  fresh  acquaintances,  especially  among  men  of 
letters.  The  houses  of  the  Edmund  Gosses,  the  Andrew 
Langs,  the  Beechings,  were  among  those  he  most  liked  to  dine 
at.  The  first  two,  as  we  know,  had  been  his  colleagues  in 
literary  research,  and  soon  became  his  comrades,  nor  was  he 
slow  to  express  his  appreciation  of  their  work.  He  stayed 
with  the  Langs,  too,  at  St.  Andrews,  a  place  which  stimu- 
lated him  to  talk.  He  liked  to  linger  on  Scotch  subjects  there, 
on  Walter  Scott  and  County  Guy — 'one  of  the  finest 
things  in  the  English  language' — or  upon  his  dearly  loved 
Burns.  '  Leave  out  his  debased  side,  when  you  read  him,' 
he  said  to  Mrs.  Lang,  '  make  for  the  poet  alone.'  Of 
modern  authors  he  read  ever  fewer,  but  when  on  occasion 
he  tackled  them,  it  was  impossible  to  predict  what  would 
please  him.  If  something  in  a  book  took  his  fancy  the 
rest  of  it  was  safe,  even  though  it  seemed  to  make  against 
his  views.  The  Golden  Bought  by  Dr.  Frazer  of  Trinity, 
was  a  case  in  point.  '  He  read  it,'  writes  Mr.  Gosse,  'at 
my  suggestion,  in  1898.  There  was  much,  in  this  remark- 
able study  of  certain  phases  of  anthropology,  which  was 
foreign  to  Ainger's  taste  and  habits  of  mind.  It  was  quite 
a  chance  whether  he  would  not  fling  it  from  him.  On 
the  contrary,  it  affected  him  like  an  extraordinary  romance, 
and  for  a  time  he  was  full  of  it.  He  severely  snubbed, 
as  he  could  snub,  an  unfortunate  man  who  objected  to  the 
book  as  "heterodox."  "Pooh  !"  Ainger  said,  "you  mustn't 
take  it  as  any  kind  of  doxy.  I'm  not  proposing  it  for 
use  at  mothers'  meetings.  But  it  is  a  wonderful  coloured 
window  looking  out  into  strange  places  where  I  never  looked 
before."' 

The  one  change  that  made  itself  felt  in  him  was  a  certain 
diminution  of  exuberance.  Age  had  a  little  to  do  with  it,  but 
deliberate  dignity  had  more.     The  drolleries,  the  escapades  of 


286         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

mimicry,  with  which  he  had  amused  his  circle,  were,  he  thought, 
no  longer  permissible  to  one  who  occupied  his  office,  and 
his  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things — his  instinct  for  decorum 
— told  most  at  this  time  on  his  life.  He  was  as  particular 
for  others  as  for  himself,  and  disliked  any  inexactness, 
whether  ceremonial  or  social.  If  he  made  some  trifling 
blunder  himself,  it  caused  him  the  deepest  distress.  He 
once,  'in  1899'  (to  quote  Mr.  Gosse  again),  'wrote  a  copy 
of  complimentary  verses  to  the  Dutch  novelist,  Maarten 
Maartens,  whom  he  very  much  admired.  But  he  was  not 
aware  that  this  is  a  pseudonym,  and  when  he  received  a 
letter  of  charming  thanks  from  Holland,  signed  "  Jan 
Martinus  Willem  van  de  Poorten-Schwartz,"  he  was  in 
the  highest  dismay,  and  ran  about  showing  the  signature  to 
everybody  as  "  the  most  extraordinary  nom  de  guerre  ;  and  who 
can  it  be,  and  what  had  I  better  do  ? '''  His  agitation  was 
soothed  by  being  told  that  all  he  had  to  do  had  long  ago  been 
done.' 

This  increased  feeling  for  deportment  no  doubt  also  re- 
strained his  talk  and  made  him  oftener  grave  than  of  old,  so 
that  many  of  those  who  met  him  in  these  latter  years  had  no 
idea  he  was  a  wit.  The  danger  of  that  gift  for  his  profession 
frequently  tied  his  tongue.  '  Wit,  my  dear,  can  make  you 
enemies  ;  but  it  cannot  make  you  friends  ^ — so  he  said  to  his 
niece.  But  it  was  not  true  of  his  own  wit,  which  certainly  did 
make  him  friends,  though  it  never  gave  him  a  foe.  Its  sting, 
it  is  true,  often  lay  in  his  use  of  a  quotation  which,  ten 
chances  to  one,  was  not  recognised  by  his  audience.  '  The 
"  prosperity  "  of  an  allusion,  as  of  a  jest,  lies  in  the  ear  of 
him  that  hears  it,"" — he  once  wrote  concerning  Elia,  and  the 
words  apply  to  himself.  And  perhaps  another  reason  why  his 
sayings  left  no  pain  was  the  fact  that  they  did  not  touch  on 
anxious  topics.  He  left  politics  severely  alone,  and  felt  no 
temptation  to  allow  his  brilliance  to  sharpen  party  strife. 
Nor  did  he  often  come  across  politicians.  There  was  an 
exceptional  occasion  when  he  met  Mr.  Balfour  at  the  house 
of  Mr.  Gosse,  an  incident  recounted  by  their  host,  whose 
words  we  will  once  more  use.     '  On  the  22nd  of  November 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS  287 

1901,  Ainger  dined  with  me''  'to  meet  Mr.  A.  J.  Balfour, 
to  whom  he  had  been  introduced  before,  and  whom  he  had 
seen  in  his  congregation  at  the  Temple,  but  with  whom 
he  had  never  yet  talked.  On  this  occasion  they  had  a 
long  conversation,  and  Ainger  spoke  afterwards  with  great 
appreciation  of  Mr.  Balfour's  agility  of  mind,  and  of  the  fresh 
and  eager  manner  in  which  he  went  out  to  meet  new  ideas  half- 
way. "  In  fact,"  Ainger  said  to  me,  "  there's  nothing  of  the 
hide-bound  politician  about  him  ;  he  might  be  an  ordinary 
*  littery '  fellow,  like  you  or  me,  for  all  the  law  he  lays  down 
about  things  he  knows  nothing  about."  This  was  great 
praise  from  Ainger,  who  had  a  curious  dislike  of  the  ordinary 
political  mind,  "  fitted  up,"  he  once  said,  "  with  rows  of  little 
phials  full  of  quack  medicines,  and  if  you  take  one  you  must 
take  them  all."' 

After  Ainger  was  made  Master,  his  readings  became  rarer. 
He  still  lectured  at  the  Royal  Institution,  at  Bristol,  and 
at  Newnham,  at  King's  College  for  Ladies,  and  elsewhere ; 
indeed,  some  of  his  best  lectures  belong  to  this  period.     But 
his  Shakespeare  readings  had   now  to  be  kept   for   few  and 
private  occasions.     It  was  not  that  his  zest  had  gone.     Any 
daily  occurrence  might  start  him  on  pages  of  quotation.     His 
niece  remembers  how  one  summer  as  he  sat  at  breakfast  in  the 
coffee-room  of  a  Welsh  hotel,  a  bear  was  led  past  the  window 
and  set  him  off  at  once  upon  the  scene  of  the  dancing  bear  in 
the  Merry   Wives  of   Windsor,  while    the    occupants   of  the 
other  tables  looked  on  at  liis  gestures  in  bewilderment.     And 
those  who  heard  him  read  FalstafF,as  he  did  in  1902,  felt  that  his 
vigour  was  undiminished.     The  latter  years  of  his  life  brought 
him  a  fresh  pleasure — a  discovery  in  the  art  of  interpretation. 
In  1898,  Mr.  Walford  Davies  became  organist  at  the  Temple, 
and    from    their   association   there   originated   a    scheme    of 
Ainger's  reading  to  music.     The  idea  hardly  sounds  artistic, 
but  Walford  Davies  both  wrote  and   played  the  accompani- 
ment ;  and   no  one  who  heard  Ainger's  many-toned  voice  in 
The  BrooJi,  or  The  Ancient  Mariner,  supported,  as  it  were, 
by  the  sub-current  of  sympathetic  harmonies,  could  doubt  of 
the  success  of  the  experiment.     The   Tempest  was   the   last 


288         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

work  they  had  meant  thus  to  express,  but  their  project  was 
never  realised. 

It  is  difficult  to  speak  of  this  time,  without  dwelling  upon 
the  happiness  that  he  found  in  this  gifted  musician's  company. 
The  bond  that  united  them  was  not  only  music,  although  that 
meant  much,  or  the  keen  interest  Davies  gave  him  of  watching 
a  budding  career.  His  friendship  was  that  of  the  older  for 
the  younger  man,  both  protective  and  admiring,  and  bringing 
with  it  the  sense  of  refreshment.  Bound  up  as  it  was  with  the 
Temple  services,  it  cheered  him  more,  perhaps,  than  anything 
else  in  these  late  years.  Nor  did  they  meet  only  over  the  music 
for  the  church,  though  they  always  arranged  it  in  concert — by 
letter  when  not  by  conversation.  The  Master's  House  became 
a  home  to  Walford  Davies ;  and  many  were  the  evenings  that 
he  spent  there,  exploring  the  land  of  Brahms,  playing 
Beethoven  and  Bach  and  Schubert,  while  the  Master  stood 
behind  his  chair,  one  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  the  other 
beating  time  in  the  air  in  the  way  so  familiar  to  his  friends. 
And  no  success  that  Ainger  had  himself  could  have  given  him 
greater  delight  than  did  the  growing  reputation  of  the  artist 
he  had  chosen  for  his  own. 

These  were  prosperous  days  with  him.  All  went  well  with 
his  family.  His  elder  niece  kept  house  for  him ;  the  younger 
was  married,  in  1896,  to  Mr.  Walter  Evans,  his  host,  as  of 
old,  at  Darley  Abbey.  And  his  nephew  Bentley,  who  became 
the  Rector  of  St.  Peter's,  Sandwich,  also  married  in  1895  and 
had  two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl.  They  seemed  the  one 
thing  that  their  child-loving  great-uncle  wanted,  and  the  boy, 
at  least,  grew  old  enough  to  feel  his  charm.  All  his  ancient 
spells  were  exercised  upon  '  Toozleyboots,'  as  he  called  him 
— and  Toozleyboots  thought  that  there  was  nobody  like 
him.  It  was  characteristic  of  him — the  mark  of  one  who 
really  cared  for  children — that  he  did  not  like  spoiling  them, 
and  knew  that  they  did  not  like  it  either ;  that  if  at  one 
moment  he  was  the  magician,  at  the  next  he  could  be  the 
disciplinarian. 

But  his  letters  from  1897  are,  perhaps,  the  best  record  of 
the  next  six  years. 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  289 

'  Masteii's  HousEj 
'Temple,  E.G.,  Nov.  8,  1897. 

'  My  dear  Gosse, — Thank  you  very  much  for  your  new  Book, 
into  which  I  have  as  yet  only  dipped  at  random,  but  with  which, 
thus  far,  I  find  myself  everywhere  in  agreement.  We  do  indeed 
need  a  few  teachers  abroad  to  remind  us  of  the  difference  between 
good  literature  and  what  is  bad  and  foolish.  By  the  way,  did  you 
read  Andrew  Lang's  infinitely  droll  parody  of  Hall  Caine  in  last 
■week's  Punch  } 

'I  have  been  refreshing  my  memory  of  Leigh  Hunt's  poetry 
since  you  last  wrote  ;  and  I  must  confess  I  find  no  traces  of  any 
influence  over  Hood.  He  treated  "  Hero  and  Leander,"  but  in  so 
wholly  different  a  way.  It  was  really  on  Shakespeare — notably 
Femes  and  Adonis — that  Hood  there  modelled  himself,  I  believe. 

'  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  Hood  took  his  Keats  through  J.  H. 
Reynolds.  I  rather  thought  I  had  conveyed  my  meaning  to  that 
effect.  I  meant  to.  Nor  did  I  at  all  mean  to  decry  Reynolds 
on  the  serious  and  lyrical  side.  I  think  he  had  a  veiy  pretty  gift. 
But  surely  when  he  became  comic,  as  in  Peter  Bell  the  second,  he 
was  very  thin  and  weak.  Think  of  Andrew  Lang  and  Owen 
Seaman  by  comparison  ! — Yours  always,  Alfred  Ainoer. 

To  Miss  Thompson. 

'  I  took  duty,  but  did  not  preach  at  the  Foundling  last  Sunday. 

The  sermon  is  just  the  same  as  of  old.    Poor  old unexpectedly 

got  better  and  preached,  and  was  as  dull  as  could  be.  ...  I  felt 
that  I  would  rather  have  been  at  our  own  service  at  the  Temple, 
where  there  is  something  like  worship  and  life.' 

To  Mrs.  Smith. 

'  Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.G.,  Christmas  1897. 

'  My  dear  Friend, — As  I  was  about  to  remark  last  Christmas 
Eve,  when  I  suddenly  found  my  stock  of  stationery  exhausted, 
whenever  I  am  much  duller  than  usual,  you  may  be  sure  there  is 
some  very  good  reason  for  it. 

'It  is  terribly  foggy  to-day,  moreover,  and  I  have  a  pound  or 
two  of  best  Wallsend  wandering  about  in  my  Bronchial  cavities. 
Wasn't  it  Charles  Lamb,  by  the  way,  who  protested  one  day 
against  poets  insisting  on  reciting  their  verses  to  everybody  they 
met .''     "  Now,  I  myself,"  he  said,  "  wrote  a  little  poem  only  last 

T 


290         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

night,  but  I  should  never  dream  of  repeating  it  to  the  present 
company."  This  of  course  whetted  the  company's  appetite,  and 
they  pressed  and  insisted  that  he  would  give  them  such  a  treat  as 
to  let  them  hear  it.  He  made  a  great  fuss,  of  course,  and  at  last 
said,  "  Oh,  well,  of  course  if  you  wish  it."  And  proceeded  to 
recite  the  Poem — which  was 

"  Oh  !  my  Gog  ! 
What  a  Fog  ! " 

'This  reminds  me  that  a  very  interesting  memoir  of  Lamb's 
friend,  Thomas  Hood,  has  been  lately  written  by — well,  I  forget 
the  name — but  it  is  reviewed  in  last  week's  Spectator.  A  word  to 
the  wise. 

'  I  wish  I  had  a  few  good  stories  to  tell  you,  but  you  are  such 
go-ahead  people  in  Sheffield,  that  all  our  jokes  in  London  have 
been  known  to  you  long  before  they  reach  what  the  late  Mr. 
Compton  called  "the  great  Metrolopus."  For  instance,  you 
know,  I  am  sure,  all  the  best  things  of  poor  Sir  Frank  Lockwood, 
at  whose  funeral  a  great  party  to-day  assembled.  I  have  just  met 
Lord  Rosebery  who  was  there.  He  was  a  witty  man — and  was 
even  your  Recorder,  was  he  not }  Did  he  not  once  in  Scotland, 
after  hearing  the  Highland  magnates  announce  themselves  as 
"  Dunvegan  and  Mrs.  Glentoddy,"  and  so  forth,  announce  him- 
self and  wife  as  "  24  Lennox  Gardens  and  Mrs.  Lockwood  "  ?  The 
Lawyers,  among  whom  I  often  disport  myself  at  leisure,  are  witty 
folks.  Mr.  Justice  Mathew,  for  instance,  expressed  himself  very 
happily  the  other  day  about  Lord  Justice  Lindley,  who  was  made 
Master  of  the  Rolls — a  most  excellent  appointment,  of  course. 
But  a  very  bad  case  of  jobbery  had  occurred  just  before,  so 
Mathew  said,  alluding  to  the  appointment  of  Lindley  :  "  A  most 
extraordinary  choice !  not  a  single  qualiJicatio7i  that  I  can  think  of, 
except  meiit."  .  .  . 

'  Who  are  they  you  will  welcome  at  your  hospital  Board .''  Will 
there  be  Seymour  Knyvett  (as  right  as  a  trivet)  and  Maggie  his 
wife  (the  delight  of  his  life) — and  I  guess  there  '11  be  Katie, 
whose  judgment  is  weighty — whenever  you  tell  her  to  go  to  the 
cellar,  to  choose  "foreign  drains"  in  the  forai  of  champagnes  — 
for  you're  not  like  some  folks  who  play  practical  jokes — and  give 
your  guests  Perry  wherewith  to  make  merry — What  have  I  wan- 
dered/row  .''  Oh  !  there 's  Lily  and  Tom — and  I  'm  sure  that  the 
latter  will  honour  his  platter — for  he  plays  (so  's  the  talk)  a  good 
knife  and  fork — for  no  Master-Cutler  does  work  that  is  subtler — 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  291 

(It 's  a  Firm  I  ne'er  mock  would — that  bears  the  name  "  Lock- 
wood") — My  pen  I  've  just  mended  (I  feared  it  had  ended  !),  by 
a  Knife's  timely  aid,  with  their  name  on  the  blade.  And  what 
makes  it  more  pleasant — the  knife  was  a  Present ! ! 

'  And  now  I  've  no  time  to  go  searching  for  rhyme :  so  my  very 
dear  friends,  let  my  love  make  amends  for  this  trumpery  verse 
(and  it  couldn't  be  worse) — This  season  of  Turkey  is  terribly 
murky.  But  love  sheds  its  rays  upon  gloomiest  days.  Judge  this 
Fun  of  your  friend's  by  the  kindness  it  lends — and  then  there  's 
no  danger,  you'll  be  hard  on  A.  Ainger.' 

To  THE  Same. 

'  Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.G.,  Christmas  1898. 

'  My  dear  Friend, — "  As  the  Festive  Season  again  recurs,  I  have 
to  solicit  a  renewal  of  that  friendly  confidence,  which  it  will  ever 
be  my  study  to  deserve.  I  hope  to  be  able  to  supply  you  with 
some  fine  chestnuts  for  the  Christmas  dinner,  of  which  samples 
are  enclosed.  Joe  Millers  are  cheap  to-day." — I  quote  from  my 
favourite  grocer.  Lily — that  "plant  and  flower  of  light"  (Ben 
Jonson)  sends  me  a  very  gratifying  account  of  you  all,  especi- 
ally of  Edward,  who  I  understand  is  shortly  to  take  Holy  Orders. 
If  he  would  wish  me  to  sign  his  "  Si  quis,"  I  shall  be  happy  to  do 
so — and  hope  he  will  not  think  I  am  "Si-quizzing"  him.  .  .  . 

*  I  heard  a  story  lately  of  a  Butler. 

'  Party  in  a  Country  House.  Maid  dressing  a  guest's  hair. 
Guest :  "  I  hope,  Parker,  you  are  comfortable  in  your  place."  "Oh 
yes.  Ma'am — the  society  down-stairs  is  so  superior.  The  Butler 
leads  the  conversation.  He  is  such  a  refined  man — indeed,  quite 
scientific.  He  has  been  telling  us  all  about  Evolution,  and  we 
quite  understand  it  now.  He  says  we  are  all  descended  from 
Darwin." 

*  By  the  way,  did  you  hear  of  Mrs.  Creighton  (wife  of  the 
Bishop  of  London)  addressing  a  great  Mothers'  Meeting  at  the  East 
End  of  London  on  how  to  make  home  attractive  and  comfortable 
and  so  on. 

'  Old  Lady  at  the  conclusion  to  another  old  Lady,  "  Ah  !  it 's  all 
very  well — but  I  should  like  to  know  what  Mrs.  Creighton  does 
when  old  Mr.  Creighton  comes  home  dnink." 

'  And  this  by  a  natural  association  of  ideas  reminds  me  of  an 
epigram  just  sent  me  from  Bristol.  At  Clevedon  (where  William 
and  I  once  sat  and  smoked  under  the  Church  wall)  there  is  a  very 


292         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

High  Church  clergyman  named  Vicars  Foote,  who  has  been  lately 
reprimanded  by  his  Bishop  for  excessive  Ritual.  A  flippant  person 
puts  into  the  offending  parson's  mouth  the  following  retort : — 

"  I  will  not  leave  my  benefice. 

Nor  change  the  ways  I  've  got. 
A  Bishop's  foot  may  be  put  down, 
A  Vicar's  Foot  may  not ! " 

'  I  wonder  if  another  Theological  story  has  reached  Sheffield 
yet — about  the  old  Scotch  lady  who  heard  that  in  the  Revised 
Version  of  the  Lord's  Pi-ayer,  the  Revisers  had  substituted 
"Deliver  us  from  the  evil  one"  for  "Deliver  us  from  evil" — (as 
they  have  done,  you  know).  The  old  lady  replied,  "  Eh,  Sirs — but 
he'll  be  sair  uplifted  !" 

'  I  have  been  in  Scotland  this  year,  and  in  Ireland,  but  I  think 
most  of  the  good  stories  have  been  told.     By  the  way,  if  you  want 

some  good  old  stories,  get  's  recently  published  Volume  of 

Rummy-nuisances  (this  is  my  witty  way  of  spelling  it).  I  have 
suggested  (not  to  Iwii)  as  a  motto  for  the  next  Edition — 

'  Under  the  Chestnut  Tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me  ? 

'  As  we  are  on  the  subject  of  the  clergy,  have  you  ever  heard 
this }  Scotch  Minister  returning  to  his  Manse  in  the  gloaming, 
becomes  aware  of  a  figure  sleeping  sweetly  in  a  ditch.  On  further 
examination,  he  discovers  one  of  his  own  Elders.  After  dragging 
him  up  and  restoring  his  suspended  animation,  he  asks,  with  some 
indignation,  where  his  Church  Officer  had  been.  "  Well,  Minister, 
I  canna  weel  remember  whether  it  was  a  wedding  or  a  Funeral 
— hut  it  was  a  gran  success  !"  It  must  have  been  the  same  gentle- 
man (or  one  of  the  same  pattern)  who  at  a  dinner  party,  after 
drinking  champagne  during  the  earlier  courses,  was  heard  to 
murmur:  "I  hope  there's  some  whisky  coming!  I  get  vera 
tired  of  these  mineral  waters  !  " 

'And  now  that  you,  like  this  gentleman,  are  getting  ''vera 
tired"  of  so  much  prose — and  that,  not  sparkling — what  say  you 
to  dropping  into  poetry,  like  Mr.  Wegg  ? 

'  There  was  an  old  man  of  Bengal 
Who  purchased  a  Bat  and  a  Ball 

Some  gloves,  and  some  pads — 

(It  was  one  of  his  fads — 
For  he  never  played  cricket  at  all  !) 

' .  .  .  Well,  I  fear  you  and  yours  will  have  to  mourn  over  me 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  293 

that  years  do  not  seem  to  "  bring  the  philosophic  mind/'  and  that 
your  poor  friend  is  just  as  frivolous  as  he  was  thirty  years  ago. 
Well,  well,  it 's  Christmas  time,  and  a  few  Crackers  (besides  Tom 
Smith's)  may  be  allowed  upon  the  dinner  table,  among  the  plainer 
and  more  wholesome  viands.  And  so  I  trust  to  be  forgiven,  and 
to  be  thought  kindly  of  by  my  dear  old  friends  at  the  "  West- 
wood  Arms,"  for  that  is  still  its  name  to  me,  knowing  that  they 
are  always  open  to  receive  their  attached  and  faithful  friend, 

'  A.  A.' 

To  Mr.  Cave. 

'  Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.G.,  Dec.  20,  1899. 

'  Mv  DEAR  Dan, — .  .  .  We  are  living  through  a  strange  experience 
this  Christmas,  dear  Boy, — such  as  you  and  I  never  knew  before. 
Let  us  have  a  day  of  National  Humiliation  by  all  means ;  but  do 

not  let  us  regard  it  as  Lord  does  in  to-day's  Times,  who 

naively  suggested  that  as  the  Boers  had  kept  their  bmn  day  of 
Humiliation  and  had  then  enjoyed  some  successes,  perhaps  we 
might  adopt  the  same  course,  with  the  same  results  !  Literally 
this  is  what  the  noble  lord  said,  and  I  have  seldom  been  more 
saddened  by  a  display  (very  common)  of  Christian  paganism.' 


To  Mrs.  Smith. 

'  Christmas,  1899. 

* .  .  .  The  mention  of  Biblical  subjects  reminds  me  of  a  very 
singular  incident  that  occurred  not  long  ago  in  an  American 
Court  of  Justice.  The  Presiding  Judge  had  a  very  difficult 
case  before  him  (closely  resembling  one  that  is  reported  in 
1  Kings,  iii.),  in  which  two  women  claimed  to  be  the  mother 
of  a  child,  who  was  produced  in  court.  The  learned  Judge 
thought  that  History  might  very  well  repeat  itself,  and  asked 
that  the  infant  should  be  handed  up.  He  then  solemnly  opened 
his  Bowie-knife,  and  made  as  if  he  would  again  act  upon  the 
ancient  precedent.  Whereupon,  one  of  the  Mothers  exclaimed 
"  Oh  !  no  !  if  it  comes  to  that,  you  may  keep  the  child  yourself" — 
upon  which  both  ladies  left  the  Court.  The  Judge  sent  an  officer 
of  the  Court  in  pursuit,  but  they  had  hopelessly  disappeared. 
The  Judge,  as  he  walked  out  of  Court,  with  the  infant  in  his  arms, 
was  heard  to  mutter^"  Waal !  Solomon  was  a  very  over-rated 
man. ' 


294         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  ATNGER 

*Now,  this  deeply  interesting  narrative  will  do  very  well  to 
start  the  conversation  at  Dinner  on  Christmas  Day ;  and  indeed 
a  worse  anecdote  will  be  at  least  better  than  that  unfailing 
disturber  of  family  Harmony — a  discussion  as  to  which  year  is 
the  beginning  of  the  next  century.  This  will  certainly  wreck 
the  peace,  and  disturb  the  Testamentary  arrangements  of  many 
an  otherwise  attached  and  united  household  this  Christmas.  I 
observe  that  the  Emperor  of  Germany  (quite  a  gay  Canute  over 
again)  has  ordained  that  the  New  Century  begins  on  the  first  of 
Januai'y  next — so  of  course  little  remains  to  be  said.  Though 
he  reminds  me  of  the  American  millionaire  who,  on  the  voyage 
over  from  New  York  to  this  country,  was  seen  at  the  hour  of 
sunset  standing  at  the  Bows  of  the  Vessel,  with  his  gold  chrono- 
meter in  his  hand.  And  thus  he  addressed  the  Orb  of  Day,  slowly 
approaching  its  disappearance.  "Now  then,"  he  said,  "you 
blooming  Ball — if  you  don't  make  haste,  you  '11  be  late."  It  is 
a  beautiful  thought,  making  his  three  hundred  dollar  ticker  the 
standard  for  the  universe. 

'  Talking  of  Americans,  I  met  at  dinner  the  other  evening,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  the  great  Mark  Twain.  A  droll-looking, 
and  droll-mannered  gentleman  who  did  not,  however,  waste  any 
very  good  things  on  his  company.  Oddly  enough,  /  told  him  a 
very  ancient  American  jest  which  I  remembered  from  the  time 
I  was  in  jackets.  He  had  never  heard  it,  and  laughed  so  loud 
that  the  other  end  of  the  dinner  table  insisted  upon  knowing 
the  reason.  It  was  a  very  fast-trotting  mare  that  an  American 
gentleman  drove,  with  a  friend  by  his  side.  After  a  while  the 
friend  enquired  what  cemetery  it  was  they  were  passing  through. 
The  mile-stones  came  so  quick  that  he  was  misled. 

'  And  now,  my  dear  old  friend — what  can  I  say  }  Perhaps  I 
ought  not  to  be  writing  in  this  frivolous  vein  at  all,  for  we  are 
living  in  sad  times,  and  there  is  hardly  a  home  around  us  that 
has  not  received  some  wounds,  more  or  less  severe,  in  its  circle 
of  family  or  friendship.  But  perhaps  it  is  better  not  to  depart 
from  old  customs,  though 

"  Sadly  falls  our  Christmas  eve." 

* .  .  .  Do  you  know  the  two  following  lines — perhaps  the  most 
beautiful  couplet  in  the  English  language .'' 

"The  feathered  tribe  on  pinions  swim  the  air. 
Not  so  the  Mackerel — aud  still  less  the  Bear  ! " 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  295 

To  Mr.  Horace  Smith. 

'  Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.G.,  May  7, 1900. 

'My  dearest  Horace, — Your  note  this  morning  came  to  me 
as  a  real  angelic  visitant.  For  in  spite  of  your  holding  me  to  be 
well  and  fit,  I  am  really  weak  and  depressed  after  influenza,  and 
was  quite  done  after  our  long  morning  service  yesterday.  I  was 
depressed,  too,  about  my  sermon,  which  seemed  to  me  to  be  an 
old,  old,  tale  and  hardly  worth  saying,  but  now  I  am  thankful 
that  I  preached  it,  for  your  good  opinion  is  very  precious  to  me. 
Is  your  enigmatical  signature  a  reference  to  my  sermon  of  the 
Sunday  before,  which  was  commemorative  of  William  Cowper  "of 
the  Inner  Temple  "  .'*  I  certainly  pronounced  his  name  Cooper, 
because  to  the  best  of  one's  knowledge,  he  so  called  himself — 
as  certainly  others  called  him. 

''A  riddle  by  Cowper 
Made  me  swear  like  a  trooper" 

are  the  first  lines  of  a  contemporary  answer  in  verse  to  one  of 
C.'s  poetical  charades.    Did  you  ever  hear  of  "  Cowper-Temple  "  ? 

'  I  also  said  a  few  words  in  honour  of  your  late  lamented  chief. 
Sir  John  Bridge,  for  whom  I  had  a  great  esteem  and  liking. 

*Yes,  I  knew  about  Nowell's  article  in  the  Times.  Bruce 
Richmond  had  told  me  it  was  coming.  But  these  young  scholars 
soon  get  us  old  fogies  out  of  our  depths,  and  I  cry,  like  Julius 
Caesar  :  "  Help  !  Help  !  Licinius  " — like  a  sick  gy — irl. 

'Excuse  brevity,  for  I  am  out  of  condition,  and  the  grass- 
hopper is  a  burden. 

'  Love  to  you  all.  You  none  of  you  have  any  faults,  but  I  love 
you  all  still.— Your  afFec*^.,  A.  Ainger.' 

To  Mrs.  Smith. 

'  Christmas,  1900. 

' .  .  .  My  delightful  recollection  of  Lily's  last  Musical  Festival 
brings  to  mind  a  very  musical  child  I  heard  of  the  other  day,  who 
began  her  Prayers  one  evening — "  Pray  God,  bless  dear  Papa 
and  Mamma — Beethoven,  Nursey,  and  Brahms."  I  am  sure 
Lily  will  love  that  child  at  once,  and  predict  for  her  a  distin- 
guished musical  career.  And  that  recalls  to  me  a  recent  incident 
at  the  Parish  Church  of  Kensington,  in  the  Choir  of  which, 
Sir    Richard  Webster   (now  Chief  Justice)   has   sung  for  years. 


296         LIFE  OF  ALFRED   AINGER 

A  lady  in  the  congregation  (a  stranger)  recently  asked  the  Verger 
if  he  would  kindly  point  out  to  her  the  distinguished  person  in 
question.  The  Verger  replied  :  "  Well,  Ma'am— that  is  the  Vicar  ; 
and  them's  the  Curates,  and  I'm  the  Verger;  but  as  for  the  Choir 
— as  long  as  they  does  their  dooty,  we  don't  enquire  into  their 
hantecedents  ! " 

'  Terrible  effect  of  the  war  upon  an  infant's  faith — "  Mummy, 
is  the  story  you  told  me  about  Jonah  and  the  Whale  true}" 
"Yes,  my  darling,  of  course  it's  true  !  it's  in  the  Bible."  "Yes, 
Mummy — but  has  it  been  confnned  by  the  War  Office  }  "  Shocking, 
Shocking ! 

' .  .  .  And  here  is  a  nice  new  poem  on  a  nice  old  model : — 

'  There  was  a  young  lady  of  Venice 
Who  used  hard-boiled  eggs  to  play  tennis — 
When  they  said  "  Ain't  that  wrong?" 
She  exclaimed  "  Get  along  ! 
You  don't  know  how  productive  my  hen  is  ! "  * 

The  following  note  to  the  painter,  Mr.  Briton  Riviere, 
marks  a  friendship  in  which  he  had  long  found  a  source  of 
real  pleasure.  He  loved  studios,  and  he  spent  pleasant  hours 
in  that  of  Mr.  Riviere,  watching  his  pictures  grow  and 
suggesting  subjects  to  him.  And  he  extended  his  affection 
to  the  artist's  son,  Hugh,  who  has  given  us  the  best  portrait 
existing  of  Canon  Ainger.  The  successes  of  both  men  delighted 
him.  '  Ah,'  he  said  to  the  elder  Riviere,  who  had  just  been 
made  R.A.,  'I  see  you  have  taken  in  the  "Academy";  before 
long  you  will  be  taking  in  the  "  Athenaeum." ' 


To  Mr.  Briton  Riviere. 

'  I  have  just  been  to  the  Private  View  of  the  Academy  and  seen 
Mr.  Riviere's  "St.  George,"  a  very  poetic  and  touching  picture — 
the  human  figure 's  exquisite ;  what  the  critics  and  public  will  say 
to  the  crushed  horse,  I  am  not  so  sure.  Some  one  says  the 
compass  of  the  picture  is  so  remarkable — from  the  Upper  Sea  to 
the  lower  Gee. 

•(A  sea  and  shore  high  up  and  far  off  in  the  picture,  a  bold 
effect  of  perspective.) 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  297 

To  Canon  Beeching. 

'  Royal  Hotel, 
'Whitby,  Sunday,  August  19,  1900. 

M  Y  DEAR  Beeching, —  ...  I  am  so  grateful  for  your  kind 
words  about  the  Chaucer  papers.  I  am  one  of  those  unhappy  men 
who,  spending  too  much  of  their  lives  in  trying  to  gauge  other 
men's  writings,  never  have  any  confidence  in  anything  themselves 

write,  until  some  kind  friend  reassures  them.     By  the  way, 's 

High  Church  thermometer  is  going  up  and  up,  and  even  the 
High  churchmen  find  it  a  trifle  hot.  ...  It  reminds  me  of  what 
Lowell  wrote  about  Theodore  Parker — 

'  whose  opinions 
Were  ''so  (ultra)  cinian"  they  shocked  the  Socinians. 

We  have  been  to  church  this  morning,  and  heard  a  facetious 
curate  who  lamented  the  decadence  of  Christians  in  these  days, 
who  travel  so  much  "on  wheels"  that  they  can't  get  up  early 
enough  for  Divine  Service,  and  explained  that  this  was  not  what 
was  meant  by  saints  "  rejoicing  in  their  beds."  I  could  not  but 
recall  Swift's  advice  to  the  young  clergyman  never  to  "  show  his 
wit,"  for  by  the  nicest  calculation  it  was  a  thousand  to  one  that 
he  had  not  any. 

'  I  was  in  Stamford  the  other  day  giving  away  some  prizes ; 
such  an  interesting  old  town,  though  I  had  not  time  to  see 
Burleigh  House.     I  wonder  if  you  are  near  it — I  fancy  not.  .  .  . 

'Any  spare  moments  that  you  can  waste  on  your  unworthy 
friend  will  be  gratefully  welcomed.  I  hope  Mrs.  Beeching  and 
the  filiolae  are  drinking  in  health  at  every  pore.  Our  best  regards. 
Ever  yours,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  Mil.  GossE. 

'Master's  House,  Temple,  E.G., 
'  Wednesday  Evening,  October  24,  1900. 

'  My  dear  Gosse, — How  can  I  adequately  thank  you  for  the 
truly  generous  and  friendly  Review  that  I  have  just  read  in  the 
Quarterly  ?  I  could  not  but  suspect  that  it  would  be  kindly,  for 
I  have  ever  met  with  kindness  and  serviceableness  at  your  hands 
— but  I  am  indeed  touched  by  all  your  praise. 

'  May  I  say  also  how  just  and  excellent  I  think  your  remarks  on 
Lamb  himself,  and  how  I  marvel  that  on  a  subject  about  which 


298         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

so  much  has  naturally  been  written,  you  have  managed  to  say  so 
much  that  is  fresh  and  stimulating.  I  am  quite  with  you  as  to 
"  Rosamund  Gray" — I  myself  used  the  sad  word  "  insanity  "  with 
regard  to  it,  and  Lamb  had,  as  you  remember,  been  in  confine- 
ment not  many  months  before. 

'As  to  the  Selections  from  the  Dramatists,  I  think  you  must  have 
overlooked  a  note  of  mine,  telling  how  I  followed  Lamb's  own 
precedent.  When  in  1818  he  reprinted  certain  of  the  prefatory 
ci-iticisms  by  themselves,  he  explained  that  he  had  chosen  those 
which  were  most  intelligible  and  interesting  tvheti  presented  apart 
from  the  passages  quoted.  So  I  followed  his  good  lead  (no  doubt 
the  Selections  themselves  ought  to  form  a  separate  volume  in  my 
series). 

*  I  hope  we  shall  meet  soon.  Till  then,  once  more  accept  my 
grateful  acknowledgments. — Ever  sincerely  yours, 

'  Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  Mk.  Briton  Riviere. 

'  Master's  House^ 
'Temple,  E.G.,  November  1,  1900. 

'  Mv  DEAR  Rivi£:re, — The  couplet  from  Chaucer's  translation  of 
the  Roman  de  la  Rose  (1.  4931)  that  I  spoke  to  you  of  on  Monday 
evening  is  this : 

"  In  gret  perell  is  set  youthede  (youth), 
Delite  so  doth  his  bridil  leede." 

The  image  presented  of  Delight  leading  the  bridle  of  the  unhappy 
youth — in  contrast  with  your  noble  knight  himself  directing  his 
steed  into  the  path  of  danger  and  mystery  in  pursuit  of  some 
noble  duty  or  purpose — "  In  manus  tuas  " — seems  to  me  a  fine 
subject  for  a  companion  picture,  at  least  when  in  the  hands  of  a 
fine  poetic  imagination  like  yours.  Forgive  my  presumption. — 
Ever  your  sincere,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  Mr.  Mowbray  Donne. 

'  Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.G.,  Dec.  26,  1900. 

'  My  dear  Mowbray, — My  best  thanks  to  my  old  friend  for  his 
kind  note,  and  for  his  charming  gift  of  Cowper's  portrait,  which  I 
rejoice  to  have,  for  I  am  an  old  lover  of  the  poet,  and  the  love 
strengthens  with   years.     He   has   got   the  ever-blessed  gift  of 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  299 

Charm — which  (and  not  as  commonly  asserted,  style)  is  Time's 
true  "  antiseptic." 

*  Our  love  and  best  wishes  for  Christmas  and  the  New  Year  (I 
must  not,  in  your  case,  say  the  new  Century) — to  you  and  Mrs. 
Mowbray.  We  are  in  the  throes  of  preparation  for  moving  to 
Clifton  next  week. — Ever  your  attached,  Alfred  Ainger.' 


To  Mrs.  Andrew  Lang. 

'  2  CODRINGTON  PlaCE,  ClIFTON, 

'Bristol,  Saturday  Evening,  Feb.  2,  1901. 

*  My  dear  Mrs.  Lang, —  .  .  . 

'  "  Friend  after  friend  departs."  Now  poor  little  Haweis  is  gone 
— so  bound  up  with  the  old  Sydenham  days.  I  have  hardly  seen 
a  sympathetic  word  about  him  in  any  newspaper  or  weekly.  To- 
day's Spectator  and  Pilot  are  dumb.  Did  you  know  him  ?  He 
was  a  well-meaning  little  fellow,  with  a  real  faculty  for  writing, 
but  without  a  grain  of  tact  or  judgment,  and  who  dashed  himself 
to  pieces  among  the  rocks  of  self-advertisement.  I  was  at  his 
wedding  when  he  married  Miss  Joy  (who,  we  agreed,  evidently 
did  not  wish  to  be  ^'a  joy  for  ever") — and  we  called  the  tiny 
couple  "  a  fortuitous  concurrence  of  atoms  " — and  then  J.  R.  Green 
and  Willie  von  Glehn  and  I  drove  back  to  Sydenham  to  hear 
Mendelssohn's  Reformation  Symphony. 

'  And  now  this  evening  I  hear  my  dear  old  friend  Dr.  Hopkins, 
fifty  years  the  organist  of  the  Temple,  is  dying — and  I  loved  him 
very  much.  He  created  the  reputation  of  the  Temple  Service 
(musically)  and  composed  lovely  Services  and  Hymns.  I,  ask 
with  the  Poet, 

"  Who  next  will  drop  and  disappear  ?  " 

*  Did  you  notice  Farrar's  amazing  quotation  about  the  Queen  ? 
He  said  "  her  death  had  eclipsed  the  gaiety  of  nations,"  which 

foolish   flourish    of  rhetoric   was    said    by   Johnson   of David 

Garrick.      It  is  rather  hard  on  our  departed  Queen  to  class  her 
with  popular  comedians  !  .  .  . 

'  How  about  the  Magazine,  and  is  A.  L.  going  to  enliven  it  a 
bit.''  It  needs  some  one  to  provide  a  gaiety  which  shall  not  be 
eclipsed. 

'  Maggie  sends  her  love.  It  is  rather  cheerless  here,  weather 
and  all.  And  any  gleams  of  light  and  leading  will  be  wel- 
comed.' 


300         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

To  Canon  Beeching. 

'  2  CODRINGTON  PlACE, 

'Clifton,  Bristol,  Feb.  28,  1901. 

'  My  dear  Beeching,  .  .  . 

'Yes.  we  detected  "the  sweet  Roman  hand"  in  the  Pilot,  and 
though  a  Cantab  I  forgive  you  any  arriere-pensees  that  might  be 
detected !  Your  Manchester  article  I  also  read  in  the  new 
Comhill,  and  it  diverted  me  much.  What  a  charming  poem  of 
Dixon's  !  and  why  do  I  not  know  that  sweet  poet  better  ?  Is  he 
procurable  in  print  ?  Godley,  too,  is  excellent,  all  the  charm  of 
Gray  and  Cowper  with  the  technical  dexterity  of  Calverley  (or 
shall  I  say  Blaydes  addressing  an  Oxtab  as  Nicholas  would  have 
called  you)  ? 

'  I  want  to  know  this  particularly.  How  does  your  experiment 
of  Friday  Lent  services  (with  men  of  light  pleading  in  the  pulpit) 
succeed .''  I  mean,  do  you  get  a  congregation  }  I  know  they  blame 
me  at  the  Temple  for  not  asking  outsiders  of  mark  to  give  the 
address,  but  I  frankly  tell  them  I  will  not  ask  men  of  eminence 
to  give  their  time  and  labour,  to  find  a  mere  handful  of  listeners 
awaiting  them  when  they  arrive.     What  do  you  think  } 

'  I  hope  the  flacens  uxor  and  not  less  placentes  Jiliolae  are  well. 
How  I  look  forward  to  Burford — though  I  know  I  must  bring  my 
own  knife,  fork,  and  spoon. 

'  Write  me  a  line  to  say  you  smile  as  you  were  wont  to  smile. 
Ever  yours,  A.  Ainger.' 

*  Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.C.,  June  6,  1901. 

'  Mv  DEAR  Beeching, — I  don't  want  to  be  a  churl,  and  I  will 
come  to  the  lunch  on  Tuesday  next,  and  will  "  propoge "  the 
College,  and  give  some  reminiscences — chiefly  (I  fear)  of  how  I 
wasted  my  time  there,  or  rather  got  a  great  deal  of  profit  and 
enjoyment  out  of  other  things  than  those  I  was  sent  there  to 
cultivate.  What  is  the  hour,  and  when  do  we  meet  ?  I  do  so 
long  for  a  talk  with  you,  but  I  fear  nothing  is  possible  till  the 
term  is  over;  the  London  season  has  indeed  set  in  "with  its 
usual  severity." — Ever  yours,  Alfred  Ainger. 

PS. — I  know  you  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  our  gracious  King 
has  appointed  me  one  of  the  Twelve  (not  the  Judas,  I  hope)  in 
his  reduced  list  of  Chaplains  in  Ordinary. 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  301 

To  Mrs.  Andrew  Lang. 

'  Darley  Abbeyj 
'Derby,  Sunday,  Aug.  11,  1901. 

'  Dear  Mrs.  Lang, — Thank  you  for  your  interesting  letter  with 
all  its  news.  I  am  vegetating  pleasantly  here,  spending  my 
morningj  however,  over  the  first  chapter  of  ray  Crabbe  which  I 
am  doing  for  the  "Men  of  Letters"  series.  I  had  a  great  fond- 
ness for  that  poet,  when  1  used  to  read  the  selections  from  him, 
as  a  boy,  in  Elegant  Extracts,  and  he  touches  and  charms  me  still. 
If  Andrew  has  any  private  stores  of  information  on  the  subject, 
now  is  his  kind  opportunity.  I  am  very  glad  he  is  going  to 
protest  against  any  more  commentaries  on  hi  Memoriam.  .  .   . 

'  Thanks  for  your  excellent  story  of  the  "  Quantities."  I  have 
nothing  so  good  to  send  in  return.  But  Bruce  Richmond  (of  the 
Times)  told  us  the  other  day  of  a  "  Memorial "  Obituary  notice  at 
the  end  of  the  Deaths  in  that  paper.  It  referred  to  the  death  of 
a  gentleman's  wife,  to  which  the  sorrowing  widower  appended 
the  two  quotations  : — 

"  Her  voice  is  heard  no  more." 
"  Peace,  perfect  Peace  ! " 

No,  Swift  did  not  frame  the  lines  as  you  quote  them.     They  are 
(I  think)  from  his  "  Ode  to  Poetry,"  and  run  thus  : — 

" the  Flea  (pronounced  '  flay ') 

Has  other  fleas  that  on  him  prey, 

And  these  have  smaller  still  to  bite  'em, 

And  so  go  on  ad  infinitum." 

But  it  is  always  transposed  into  the  "  Big  Flea  "  and  "  Little  Flea  " 
Stanza  to  which  you  refer.  .   .  .' 


To  Mr.  Horace  Smith. 

*  I  'm  one  of  the  twelve  (selected) 
King's  Chaplains  and  wear  a  special 

button.     I  call  myself  a  great  Panjau-  '  Darley  Abbey,  Derby, 

jj-mji^  'Sunday,  Aug.  18,  1901. 

"  With  the  little  round  button  at  top  !" 

*  My  dear  Horace, — I  ought  to  have  sooner  answered  your 
welcome  letter  from  Butterlip  with  all  its  news  of  the  dear 
family  and  the  dearest  couple  whom  I  lately  started  on  the  road 
of  happiness.     Where  are  they — and  how  are  they  ?     I  want  to 


302         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

write  and  tell  Nowell  I  have  discovered  the  misprint  I  long 
sought  for  in  his  Wordsworth.  I  have  now  found  it.  I  am  glad 
to  think  he  is  only  human  after  all.  It  is  in  the  last  stanza  of 
Hartleap  Well — 

"  One  lesson^  Shepherd,  let  us  two  divide." 

*.  .  .  I  am  writing  a  Life  of  Crabbe,  for  some  fresh  volumes  of 
the  "  Men  of  Letters  "  series  which  the  Macmillans  are  bringing 
out,  and  it  is  interesting  me  much.  Do  you  know,  I  was  much 
brought  up  on  Crabbe,  who  was  in  my  father's  library  when  I  was 
a  boy,  and  I  have  a  great  fondness  for  him.  If  you  have  too  (as  I 
hope),  let  us  exchange  ideas.  And  don't  turn  round  on  me  and 
quote — 

"  John  Richard  William  Alexander  Dwyer 
Was  footman  to  Justinian  Stubbs  Esq." 

although  it  is  one  of  the  best  parodies  ever  written — of  Crabbe 
(bien  entendii)  at  his  lowest.  But  he  has  written  beautiful  things 
and  there  is  nobody  like  him  at  describing  a  large  and  unlovely 
landscape. 

'.  .  .  Only  room  to  greet  the  entire  family.  With  all  love 
and  esteem.  Your  own,  A.  Ainger.' 

To  Lord  Tennyson  in  Australia. 

'Oct.  22,  1901. 

'.  .  .  Poor  Sidgwick  has  gone  since  you  and  I  last  met,  and 
another  link  with  your  old  home  has  been  broken.  "  Who  next 
will  drop  and  disappear }  "  one  finds  oneself  asking  often. 

'  The  minor  poets  struggle  on — but  as  Beatrice  said  to  Benedick, 
'  I  wonder  they  will  be  talking,  for  nobody  heeds  them.'  Kipling 
is  the  only  m.an  of  anything  like  genius  among  them.  The  War 
killed  books  for  a  time  :  the  flood  of  books  is  setting  in  again,  but 
they  are  none  of  them  literature — which  indeed  has  ceased  in  the 
land.  Novels  come  out  by  the  thousand  every  month  and,  if  only 
they  are  indecent  enough  and  written  by  so-called  ladies,  they 
still  prosper  greatly.  0  tempora — 0  mores!  I  wonder  if  the 
Antipodes  have  better  taste  than  to  read  such  things  !  In  any 
case  put  a  guard  on  your  drawing-room  table. 

'  In  Andrew  Lang's  little  volume  on  your  father,  you  will  find 
some  castigation  given  Frederic  Harrison,  who  lately  committed 
himself  to  the  assertion  that  there  was  no  original  thought  in  In 
Memoriam,  and  that  all  that  was  best  in  it  was   got  (miserabile 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  303 

didu)   from    Huxley,  Ecce  Homo,  Herbert   Spencer  and   others, 
who  weren't  born  when  the  poem  was  written.' 


To  Mr.  Horace  Smith. 

'  Master's  House, 
'Tejiple,  E.g.,  Nov.  1,  1901. 

'  My  dearest  Horace, — I  am  a  brute-beast — and  I  can't  say 
fairer  than  that !  I  have  been  going  to  write  to  you  ever  so  many 
times,  but  partly  owing  to  the  postponement  of  our  Church  open- 
ing, I  have  been  tempted  to  take  some  extra  vacation  (I  was 
with  the  Halsburys  last  Sunday  in  Suffolk)  and  this  has  knocked 
many  virtuous  resolutions  on  the  head.  I  wanted  to  tell  yon 
among  hosts  of  other  matters,  how  excellent  I  thought  your  parody 
on  Wordsworth  in  Punch  (weeks  ago),  in  which  Campbell  Bannerman 
invites  Harcourt  and  Morley  to  take  holiday.  I  became  livid  with 
envy  when  I  read  it,  and  knew  it  must  be  you.  For  you  have  a 
special  flavour  in  parody  which  none  of  the  professional  wags  have 
achieved.  .  .  . 

'  We  open  our  Church  on  Sunday,  and  should  be  glad  to  see  a 
good  muster  of  Benchers  on  the  occasion.  A  lovely  short  anthem 
of  Wesley's,  and  Services  to  match.  I  hope  we  shall  be  warm, 
after  spending  so  much  time  and  hard-earned  money  on  the  new 
machinery.  I  had  a  thought  of  preaching  from  a  text  good  old 
Bishop  Lonsdale  used  to  quote — 

'  "  Hot  water  !  ah  ! — a  very  good  thing  in  a  church — a  very 
had  thing  in  a  Parish  ! " 

'  I  have  several  side-splitting  anecdotes  awaiting  you — but  they 
are  perishable  and  the  aroma  would  disappear  in  the  Post. 

'  Love  to  you  all — and  to  the  two  old  married  folks  at  Oxford. 

'Crabbe  is  simmering  nicely — and  I  have  even  written  some 
of  it  in  the  rough. — Your  affectionate, 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 


To  Mrs.  Andrew  Lang. 

'  Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.G.,  Dec.  4,  1901. 

' ,  .  .  I  suppose  Henley's  attack  on  R.  L.  S.  has  reached  your 
ears  even  in  your  U/tma  TImle.  Strange  that  H.  should  not 
have  foreseen  the  storm  of  abuse  it  must  inevitably  bring  about 


304         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

his  ears,  and  quickly.  On  hearing  of  it  I  took  out  my  pocket- 
book  and  instantly  produced  the  following  : — 

"De  mortuis  nil  nisi  malum." 

''They  can't  hit  back,  so  let's  assail  'em"  ; 

which,  however,  is  but  a  poor  pendant  to  what  suggested  it,  the 
words  of  a  modern  Irish  wit,  with  a  truly  Swiftian  power  of 
rhyming : — 

''De  mortuis  uil  nisi  bonum." 

"When  scoundrels  die  we'll  all  bemoan  'em." 

I  hear  that  Andrew  has  written  an  excellent  paper  lately  in  the 
Morning  Post.     May  I  see  it  ?  .   .  . 

'  I  have  been  greatly  struck  with  the  House  with  the  Green 
Shutters  you  so  kindly  lent  us.  Its  power  is  marvellous — of  the 
Balzac  order.  One  wants  now  to  know  more  about  him,  and  to 
see  whether  he  can  treat  a  Love  interest,  let  us  say,  and  whether 
he  can  draw  nice  characters  and  normal  ones.  There  is  one  brief 
incident  in  the  story — of  a  Scotch  minister  who  has  got  into  the 
ministry  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth  and  who  discusses  a  certain 
Professor  he  remembered  in  his  student  days — "  I  always  thocht 
he  was  just  a  wee  bit  too  fond  of  Hegel ! "  which  struck  me  as 
exquisite.  I  hear  his  name  is  Brown.  Can  you  hear  any  more 
about  him .'' ' 

To  THE  Same. 

'8  Victoria  Square, 

'  Clifton,  Jan.  6,  1902. 
' .  .  .  I  have  been  reading  an  article,  so  amateurish  and  common- 
place, about  the  "Best  and  Second  Best  in  Literature,"  suggested, 
I  fancy,  by  a  paper  of  Andrew's.  How  idiotic  to  suggest  that  the 
popularity  of  Mr.  Quiller  Couch  or  Anthony  Hope  could  possibly 
be  thought  to  diminish  one's  interest  in  Milton  !  Who  ever  pro- 
pounded such  folly.''  The  two  are  not  ''in  pari  materia,"  as  the 
lawyers  say.  But  I  am  certain  it  is  the  second-rate  novelists  of 
to-day  {so  clever  and  fluent,  with  the  marks  of  their  doom  upon 
their  foreheads)  who  make  the  poor  fools  of  readers  undervalue 
and  neglect  Dickens  and  Thackeray.' 

To  Miss  Roscow. 

'  Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.G.,  Tuesday,  April  15,  1902. 

'  Dearest   Child,  ...  I  had  a  bad  day  yesterday — but  with 
the  aid  of  oysters  and  other  stimulants  I  am  gradually  recovering. 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  305 

The  truth  is,  I  had  an  exhausting  day  on  Sunday,  and  thus  it  came 
about.  On  arriving  at  the  Chapel  Royal  about  a  quarter  to 
twelve,  I  was  met  by  the  Sub-Dean  with  the  intelligence  that  he 
had  only  just  before  had  a  message  from  the  King  that  he  was 
coming  to  the  twelve  o'clock  service.  He  usually,  when  he  was 
Prince  of  Wales,  came  to  the  Matins  at  ten.  But  as  he  had  stayed 
at  Buckingham  Palace  since  his  return  from  his  cruise  on  Saturday, 
I  suppose  he  found  ten  rather  early.  To  my  horror,  the  Sub-Dean 
added : — '  You  must  preach  a  short  sermon,  not  more  than  a 
quarter  of  an  hour ;  twelve  minutes  would  be  better ! '  Well — 
what  was  to  be  done  .''  I  had  only  one  sermon  with  me  (the  one 
I  preached  at  Bristol  a  propos  of  Miss  Peveril  Turnbull)  and  I 
could  do  nothing  in  the  way  of  re-arrangement  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  However,  I  saw  that  I  might  omit  the  first  two  pages — 
and  then  saw  I  must  do  the  rest  by  extreme  rapidity  in  delivery. 
Fortunately,  clear  articulation  at  motor-car  speed  is  among  my 
talents.  So  I  did  this ;  and  his  Majesty  stayed  till  the  end. 
It  had  been  arranged  with  the  Dean  that  if  the  King  had  left 
before  the  sermon,  I  should  be  told,  so  that  I  need  not  then 
hurry, 

'  Well,  it  came  to  an  end,  and  I  got  out  of  the  Chapel,  much 
exhausted  and  rather  with  a  sense  of  having  lowered  myself  by 
what  I  had  done.  However,  friends  whom  I  met  outside,  Lord 
Aberdeen  and  Dr.  Farquharson,  were  very  kind,  and  the  former, 
who  asked  me  to  let  him  ride  with  me  in  my  cab  for  part  of  my 
way  home,  was  most  encouraging,  and  said  the  audience  were 
much  impressed,  in  spite  of  my  galloping  through.  .  .  .  Since 
my  lunch  (of  oysters  !)  Walford  has  been  in  to  try  over  the 
Ancient  Mariner  with  music.  We  sat  in  the  drawing-room  amid  a 
wi'eck  of  dust-sheets  and  dislocated  furniture.' 

To  THE  Same. 

'Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.G.,  Wednesday  afternoon,  June,  \^Q2. 

'Dearest  Child,  ...  I  sat  with  while  he  took  break- 
fast (10  A.M.),  and  then  walked  on  to  the  Abbey  for  the  11 
o'clock  rehearsal.  Much  more  brilliant  than  Monday — for  the 
peers  all  had  their  robes  and  coronets,  and  the  colours  were 
splendid.  The  old  archbishop  was  in  excellent  voice.  There 
were  lots  of  bishops  about,  all  in  dazzling  vestments.  I  hear 
from  the  Sub-Dean  that  the  new  Rock  newspaper  has  attributed 
the  national  chastisement  of  the  King's  illness  and  postponement 

u 


306         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

of  the  coronation  to — what  do  you  think  ? — the  use  of  Copes 
on  the  occasion !  But  they  were  at  it  again  to-day,  quite 
unabashed.' 

To  Mr.  Lockwood  (Vicar  of  Widford). 

'  Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.C.,  June,  1902. 

*  My  dear  Lockwood,  I  have  been  long — terribly  long — in 
acknowledging  your  welcome  letter  with  the  photographs,  for 
which  I  sincerely  thank  you.  ...  I  am  truly  ashamed  of  myself, 
though  the  Coronation,  with  all  the  preparations  for  it,  must 
be  allowed  to  bear  part  of  the  blame — for  such  things  do 
not  happen  every  day.  And  now !  It  is  all  to  come  over 
again  at  some  other  time.  I  was  to  have  been,  as  you  perhaps 
know,  at  the  head  of  the  procession  with  the  other  chaplains, 
and  had  had  made  such  a  gorgeous  costume — with  scarlet  cassock 
and  mantle,  (provided  in  part  at  the  King's  cost) ! !  I  went 
to  two  rehearsals — and  had  just  been  summoned  to  a  third  when 
the  terrible  news  burst  upon  us  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue.' 

To  Miss  Sturge. 

'  CoLWYN  Bay, 
*  North  Wales,  September  13,  1902. 

' .  .  .  I  am  glad  you  saw  my  letters  originally  addressed  to 
the  Pilot,  and  some  day,  if  all 's  well,  I  will  show  you  a  most 
interesting  letter  I  received,  in  consequence,  from  a  firm  of 
"  brass  band  music  publishers "  in  Liverpool,  who  spend  their 
time  in  arranging  the  music  of  the  great  musical  classics  for 
poor  men's  bands,  and  who  tell  me  they  made  the  very  arrange- 
ment from  Schubert  that  I  heard  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields ! 
I  have  sent  the  letter  to  Dr.  Walford  Davies,  our  Temple 
organist,  or  I  would  have  enclosed  it  to  you  now.' 

To  Mr.  Horace  Smith. 

'  Master's  House, 
'Temple,  Nov.  19.  1902. 

'Dearest  Horace,  ...  I  look  forwavd  to  the  A lma)iack  which 
I  see  is  announced  for  December  1.  About  Bradshaw  is  it.^  Do 
you  remember  my  suggested  alteration  in  Hamlet : — "  I  am  but 
mad  north-north-west ;  when  the  wind 's  southerly,  I  know  a 
book  from  a  Bradshaw  !  " 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  307 

' told  me  a  good  story  on  Sunday  evening: — Sergeant  is 

interviewing  recruit  as  to  what  religious  denomination  he  belongs 
to  :  Man  says  he  is  not  a  member  oiany.  "  Why  not  ?  "  "  Because 
I  don't  believe  anythiiig." 

' "  None  of  your  nonsense,  sir.  Then  understand — U7iiil  you  do, 
you  're  a  member  of  the  Church  of  England," 

'Tell  me  what  are  your  favourite  passages  in  Crahbe.  I  am 
writing  that  poet's  life,  and  want  a  few  brilliant  criticisms  to 
liven  it  up. 

'So  glad  you  liked  my  article  on  Tennyson.     is  a  very 

brilliant  fellow,  but  I  fear  he  is  a  little  like  the  above  Recruit. 

' .  .  .  The  two  societies  have  consented  to  put  the  electric 
light  into  this  house.  They  acceded  to  my  request  at  once. 
"  Where  they  do  agree  in  the  Temple,  their  unanimity  is  wonder- 
ful !  "     But  I  am  very  grateful.  .  .  .     Ever  your  affectionate 

'Alfred  Ainger.' 

To  THE  Same. 

'  8  York  Place, 
'  Clifton,  Bristol,  Friday,  Feb.  20,  1903. 

'  Dearest  Horace,  A  thousand  thanks  for  the  Psalms  and 
Hymns.  They  are  many  of  them  very  beautiful — and  better 
than  beautiful — and  I  could  hardly  read  some  of  them  without 
tears.  And  I  thank  God,  my  "  oldest  and  best  friend  "  (which  I 
heartily  reciprocate),  that  as  we  grow  on  to  old  age,  we  are  not 
losing  touch  with  the  only  thoughts  and  hopes  that  make  life 
worth  living.  I  shall  make  our  excellent  Walford  Davies  play 
over  these  tunes  to  me  when  I  get  back  to  the  Temple,  and 
already  I  have  passed  the  "  Key-stone  "  of  the  arch  that  bridges 
the  interval  here  (to  quote  Burns),  and  the  "  mezzo  del  cammin," 
to  borrow  from  Dante. 

'  I  sat  up  by  the  fire  and  read  your  volume  after  coming 
back  from  the  Lord  Mayor's  dinner  to  the  Judges.  (It  is 
assize  time.)* 

To  Mr.  Herbert  Paul. 

'  April  8. 

*  I  strongly  suspect  that  you  are  now  so  familiar  a  presence  at 
the  Temple  Church  that  you  may  safely  run  the  gauntlet  of  all 
the  vergers  without  a  card.  I  think  I  should  advise  you  to  try 
this  course  next  time.     Then,  if  any  pampered  minion  disputes 


308         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

your    entrance^   draw   your  card    from    your   waistcoat   pocket, 
and 

"  Strike  him  dead  for  thee  and  me  !  " ' 


To  Mr.  Bosworth-Smith. 

'Master's  House, 
'Temple,  E.C.,  Friday,  July  24,  (1903?) 

'  My  dear  Bosworth-Smith, — (May  we  not  drop  prefixes  ?  I 
will  if  you  will,  as  Edward  FitzGerald  used  to  say  !) 

'  A  few  weeks  ago  you  most  kindly  wrote  me  a  line,  telling 
me  of  your  new  paper  in  the  Nineteenth  Century.  ...  At  the 
time  I  could  not  get  access  to  the  Review,  but  at  a  friend's 
house  at  Hampstead  this  week  I  met  with  it,  and  promptly 
read  your  charming  article.  I  was  delighted,  and  look  forward 
to  many  more  from  your  hand,  and  to  their  appearance  in  a 
collected  form.  I  fear,  had  I  been  with  you,  I  could  not  have 
contributed  any  anecdotes  this  time.  The  pluck  of  a  sparrow 
in  renovating  his  home  under  trying  circumstances  has  indeed 
been  celebrated  in  a  sailor's  song,  but  the  language  so  much 
savours  of  the  briny,  that  I  fear  it  could  not  have  been  sub- 
mitted to  Knowles'  clientele,  even  in  the  elegant  elegiacs  into 
which  it  was  turned  by  an  ingenious  Shrewsbury  scholar — one 
verse  of  which  I  recall : — 

"  Sanguinolentus  erat  (si  vera  est  fabula)  passer 
Cui  fuitin  plumbo  sanguinolenta  domus  ; 
Sanguinolenta  ruit  demissa  tonitrua  coelo 
Evulsitque  tuam,  parve  Cinaede,  domum  ! " 

The  second  concluding  verse  dealt  with  the  fact  that  when  the 
disreputable  bird  observed  that  the  rain  had  ceased,  he  promptly 
'  built  up  there  again." ' 

To  Mr.  Barclay  Squire. 

(In  answer  to  an  invitation  to  a  dinner  given  in  honour  of 
Mr.  Lathbury,  the  Editor  of  The  Pilot.) 

'  Master's  House, 

'Temple,  E.C.,  1903. 

' .  .  .  It  would  have  been  a  real  pleasure  to  me  to  show  in  any 
manner  my  respect  and  regard  for  Mr.  Lathbury  and  my  admira- 
tion for  the  skill  and  pluck,  the  patience  and  perseverance,  with 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  309 

which  he  has  conducted  the  enterprise  with  which  his  name  will 
ever  be  associated, 

'For  myself,  I  feel  terribly  unworthy  to  be  associated  with 
the  Pilot,  for  Mr.  Lathbury  has  often,  I  know,  wept  over  the 
inadequacy  of  my  ecclesiastical  sympathies.  I  have  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  one  of  those  "  Moderates "  who  in  England,  as 
in  Scotland,  have  always  been  held  in  well-deserved  contempt. 
But,  though  I  belong  partly  to  the  West  of  England,  if  I  am 
not  a  Mr,  Leeper,  I  at  least  am  not  a  Plymouth  Brother,  and 
our  esteemed  editor  has  always  winked  very  hard  at  my  short- 
comings, 

'  I  only  wish  I  could  have  helped  him  at  all  in  other  topics, 
but  I  have  not  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer  ;  as  the  Scotch  sub- 
editor "jocked,"  so  I  "write,"  with  "  deeficulty,"  But  I  yet 
hope  when  certain  other  literary  engagements  are  fulfilled,  to 
have  the  honour  and  the  privilege  now  and  again  of  appearing 
in  Mr.  Lathbury 's  columns.  I  know  no  literary  journal  of  higher 
aims,  and  that  can  boast  a  higher  standard  of  literary  achievement 
— and  I  am  proud  to  have  been  allowed  the  place  of  even  the 
humblest  of  its  contributors.' 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE    PREACHER 

'  Do  not  think  me  merely  professional,  if  I  say  that  I  regard 
my  sermons  as  my  chief  work  in   life,' — so   Ainger  said   in 
his    later   years.       And   it   was   as    a   preacher   that   during 
those  years  he  mainly  figured.     When  he  became  Master  of 
the  Temple,  his  friends  often  told  him  that  they  should  not 
dare  to  jest  with  him  as  heretofore;  and  though  they  meant 
it  in   sport,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  their  words. 
Always  sensitive  to  the  dignities  of  office,  he  felt  to  the  full 
the  weight  and  seriousness  of  his  position.     His  appointment, 
it  is  true,  came  to  him  at  a  period  when  he  was  beginning  to 
feel  older.     Social  success  had  been  his,  his  best  literary  work 
was  done,  and  he  neither  possessed  the  facility  in  writing  nor 
the  need  to  express  himself  which  impels  some  men  to  go  on 
with  authorship.     A  career  of  usefulness  to  his  fellows  in  the 
state  to  which  he  was  called  seemed  to  him  what  was  now 
desirable;  while  the  improvement  in  health  and  equability 
which  the  last  years  had  brought  him  made  him  no  longer 
so  dependent  upon  the  distractions  of  society.     His  graver 
qualities,  always  there,  now  came  uppermost ;    his  brilliant 
sallies  grew  less  frequent  and  were  generally  reserved  for  his 
intimates.     In  other  circles,  when  some  familiar  face  or  old 
association  struck  a  sudden  spark  from  him,  he  would  still 
occasionally  break  forth  into  drollery  or  impersonation ;  but, 
generally  speaking,  it  may  be  said  that  those  who  met  him 
only  after  1894  did  not  know  the  real  Alfred  Ainger.     And 
this,  upon  his  part,  was,  as  we  have  seen,  the  result  of  a  deliber- 
ate resolution  to  renounce  all  that  was  not  consonant  with  his 
position  and  with  the  Christian  forbearance  it  demanded.    Wit, 
as  he  was  fond  of  repeating  both  in  public  and  in  private,  was 
incompatible  with  kindness  or  with  a  sincere  religious  standard ; 

310 


THE  PREACHER  311 

and  wit  he  tried  to  abandon,  as  far  as  he  was  able — though, 
happily  for  his  friends,  the  ability  was  not  always  there.  In 
other  directions  also  he  made  for  consistency,  refusing  to 
write  upon  subjects  that  did  not  suit  with  his  conception  of 
himself.  '  No,  I  cannot  write  humorous  articles  for  you  now 
that  I  am  Master  of  the  Temple,'  he  replied  to  a  petitioning 
editor,  and  he  did  not  break  his  resolve. 

All  the  more  could   he  concentrate  his  powers   upon  his 
preaching,  and  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life  produced  some  of 
the  finest  sermons  that  he  wrote.     Both  in  London  and  in 
Bristol,    where   he   repeated     his   Temple   sermons,    he   drew 
crowded  congregations  and  a  large  number  of  men.     Yet  a 
popular  preacher  he  never  could  have  been ;  his  strength  and 
his  weakness  alike  prevented  it.     He  had  a  fastidious  refine- 
ment, a  beautiful  power  of  expression,  but  he  rather  disliked 
eloquence.     He  excelled   in  clarity  of  thought  and  diction, 
rather  than  in  originality  or  motive  power;   in  a  quiet  and 
practical  piety  suited  to  the  needs  of  every  day,  but  not  in 
the  fire   that  converts  sinners  and   creates  enthusiasm.     His 
gifts  were  not  those  that  appeal  strongly  to  the  poor,  or  to 
any  man  or  class  in  storm  or  stress,  and  it  was  not  surprising 
to  find  that  his  audiences  were  composed  almost  exclusively  of 
cultivated  people.     His  refusal  to  use  any   kind  of  bait  in 
order  to  attract  the  public  amounted,  in  him,  to  courage  ; 
he    would   always    rather   be    dull    than    swerve    from    strict 
truth  and  justice.      And  his  moderation  alone  would  have 
excluded    him    from    popularity.      Extremes    offended    him. 
Very  High  Churchmen  and  very  Low  Churchmen  were  both 
distasteful  to  him,  though  ritualism   came  in  for  the  larger 
share  of  his   impatience.     But  he  could,  when  he  tried,  be 
just  even    to  extremes   and   to   the   tenets   that  went  most 
against    his   grain.      '  I    am    quite   aware   of   the   inevitable 
corruption    of  Saint-worship,"'   he    wrote    in    1883,   '  how    it 
must  degenerate  into  a  machinery  for  getting  something  for 
oneself;    but    at    the    same    time   a   Protestant   abhorrence 
of  it   is   an    ignoble    thing."      Nothing    afflicted    him    more 
than   party  spirit,  or   the   easy  approbation    that   attended 
it.     'Dr.  Temple,'  he  once  said,  '  was  never  a  party  man  and 


312         LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

therefore  no  party  specially  idolised  him.  This  is  the  fate 
of  all  men  who  are  early  disgusted  with  the  falsehood  of 
extremes  and  are  keen  to  avoid  them.' 

Canon  Ainger's  conception  of  preaching,  however,  needs  no 
explanation  from  the  outside.     He  himself  has  defined  it. 

'  St.  Paul's  method  was  not  that  of  the  bigot  who,  framing  his 
message  in  the  shortest  possible  terms,  cries,  "  Take  that  and  be 
saved  ;  or  reject  it  and  be  lost."  For  St.  Paul  was  a  lover  of  men 
as  well  as  a  lover  of  God ;  though  he  could  not  have  loved  men  so 
much  had  he  not  loved  God  more.  His  method,  therefore,  was 
not  to  present,  as  it  were,  a  pistol  to  their  breasts,  but  to  commend 
to  them  the  message  he  was  charged  with ;  to  show  its  reason- 
ableness, its  necessity,  its  justice,  as  well  as  its  beauty  and  its 
compassionateness,  by  appealing  in  turn  as  witnesses  to  every 
faculty  of  mind,  heart,  and  spirit  with  which  God  had  endowed 
them.  For  he  had  learned,  as  every  faithful  preacher  must  surely 
learn  when  in  contact  with  a  living,  throbbing  humanity,  that  his 
own  soul,  heart,  and  intellect  must  enter  into  the  great  work  he 
is  sent  to  do.  He  must  be  a  preacher ;  but  to  be  that  he  must  be 
a  teacher  also.  .  .  .  He  has  to  deal  alternately  with  the  highest 
mysteries  of  Christian  theology,  and  with  the  humblest  and  most 
prosaic  duties  of  the  family  and  the  home  ...  to  rebuke  fiercely, 
without  fear  or  favour ;  to  exhort,  to  control,  to  plead,  to  touch 
the  heart  and  the  emotions,  and  to  lift  the  hearer  into  the  region 
of  the  divine  by  that  noblest  eloquence,  the  eloquence  of  a 
passionate  enthusiasm  for  all  that  is  lovely  and  of  good  report.' 

'  This  was  the  idea  and  the  method  of  Paul  the  Apostle.  .  .  . 
And  that  which  runs  through  and  binds  together  the  whole  like 
a  thread  of  gold  is  the  absolute  sincerity  and  singleness  of  purpose 
of  the  man,  which  shames  the  most  hostile  critic  from  suggesting 
that  he  is  ever  playing  his  own  game  .  .  .  ever  using  language 
that  will  captivate,  as  language,  irrespective  of  the  truth  it 
conveys.' 1 

Thus  much  for  the  preacher;  what  follows  is  for  the 
congregation. 

'Just  as  the  eye  must  bring  with  it  the  power  of  seeing,  so  the 
ear  must  bring  its  power  of  hearing,  which  is  but  its  will  to  hear. 
Believe  it  well — only  the  cold-hearted  and  unspiritual  will  under- 
rate the  office  of  the  preacher.     Only  the  fool  and  the  flippant 

^  '  Preaching '  {.The  Gospel  and  Human  Life). 


THE  PREACHER  313 

will  laugh  at  it.  For  though  there  may  be  sermons  that  are  per- 
functory and  unprofitable,  still,  just  as  we  are  not  so  illogical  as 
to  deny  that  we  have  learned  from  the  poets  because  much  poetry 
is  mediocre,  so  we  shall  hardly  decline  to  be  thankful  to  the 
pulpit  for  its  successes  merely  because  of  its  many  and  inevitable 
failures.'! 

And  it  was  not  only  from  the  pulpit  that  Canon  Ainger 
spoke  of  preaching.  His  letters,  especially  such  as  deal  with 
the  sermons  of  others,  throw  light  on  what  he  made  for  in  his 
own.  The  following  notes  are  to  Mr.  Louis  Dyer,  the  husband 
of  his  old  friend,  Maggie  Macmillan,  who  had  now  settled 
at  Oxford  : — 

'Hampstead,  May  31,  1893. 

'  My  dear  Dyer, — I  fear  I  must  not  accept  the  flattering 
invitation  of  you  and  your  colleagues  to  speak  at  the  P.  Brooks 
meeting.  The  truth  must  be  told  ;  I  am  not  a  very  great  admirer 
of  his  sermons — and  it  is  only  through  his  sermons  that  I  know 
anything  of  him.  I  will  tell  you  one  day  why  he  fails  to 
move  me.  When  I  saw  his  earliest  volume  I  was  immensely 
struck,  and  indeed  it  was  I  who  first  told  the  Firm  in  Bedford 
Street  that  they  ought  to  get  hold  of  his  books,  which  you  know 
they  did.  But  as  I  read  more  of  him,  I  found  he  did  not  satisfy 
me — for  I  am  one  of  those  old-fashioned  ones  who  think  a  little 
theology,  and  a  little  unction,  impi'ove  a  sermon. 

'  I  dare  say  I  am  utterly  wrong ;  but  in  any  case  you  will  see 
what  a  wet  blanket  any  speaker  would  be  who  was  not  in  com- 
plete sympathy  with  the  person  whom  the  meeting  sought  to 
honour. 

'  Forgive  me — and  "  pity  my  ignorance " — and  believe  that 
there  is  no  question  whatever  of  my  love  and  respect  for  "  the 
Church  worshipping  in  Sunbury  Lodge."  - 

'  My  love  to  all  such  Aquilas  and  Priscillas — (including  Maggie 
and  the  (V)  "  Olney  Hwh.")^— Yours  ever,        Alfred  Ainger.' 

'Junes,  1893. 

'  My  dear  Dyer, — I  am  feeling  rather  conscience-stricken 
about  my  last  letter  to  you,  concerning  Phillips  Brooks.     Do  for- 

^  The  Gospel  and  Human  Life. 

2  The  name  of  the  Dyers'  house  at  Oxford. 

3  An  allusion  to  the  Dyers'  little  son,  Volney,  whom  Canon  Ainger  had 
christened. 


314         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

give  me,  and  ask  Maggie  to  do  the  same.  The  truth  is  I  owe 
"  my  own  soul "  to  men  so  very  different  from  your  eloquent 
countryman,  that  I  dare  say  I  naturally  underrate  him.  It  was 
F.  D.  Maurice  who  did  for  me  what  you  say  P.  B,  did  for  you, 
and  I  was  just  now  reading  with  a  view  to  a  sermon  of  my  own 
one  of  Maurice's  (in  his  Christmas  Day  and  other  Sermons  volume), 
"Human  Sorrow  the  best  evidence  of  Christianity";  and  if  you 
will  some  day  look  at  it  you  will  understand  the  sort  of  teaching 
that  affects  me  most,  and  indeed  almost  exclusively. 

*  Alas,  Quot  hoynines  tot  senteiitice — and  I  suppose  the  medicines 
for  the  soul  that  we  require  come  through  very  different  chemists' 
shops.  At  all  events,  forgive  me,  and  believe  that  I  am,  always 
your  and  Maggie's  affectionate  and  devoted  friend,  A.  A.' 

Ainger's  preaching  was  more  lucid  than  F.  D.  Maurice's, 
and  his  structural  power  was  considerable.  Mr.  R.  C.  Browne, 
his  old  friend,  whose  memories  have  helped  us  so  often,  com- 
pares him  to  his  predecessor.  Hooker. 

'  I  have  listened  to  many  discourses  of  his  from  that  pulpit 
which  once  was  Hooker's,  and  have  mused  on  the  contrast 
and  affinity  of  the  two  preachers,'  says  this  writer.  'To  tired 
lawyers,  in  their  brief  Sabbath  interval,  with  the  hurrying  murmur 
of  the  working-day  world  still  in  their  ears,  the  theological  pre- 
dilections of  old  time  would  have  been  not  merely  unwelcome, 
but  intolerable. 

'  But  one  peculiarity  of  Hooker  is  this.  He  may  be  urging 
some  important  consideration,  dwelling  on  and  developing  it  as 
he  strictly  pursues  his  argument.  His  readers  may  think  him 
oblivious  of  other  considerations  as  important,  to  the  right  or  left 
of  his  course.  He  presently  shows  that  he  has  not  forgotten,  has 
all  the  while  borne  in  mind  the  whole  lie  of  the  country,  and  has 
taken  the  first  opportunity  to  let  them  know  it. 

'  In  a  different  way  Canon  Ainger  showed  a  like  regard  for  the 
preoccupations  of  his  hearers.  He  would  enlarge  on  some  high 
theme,  not  evidently  one  "  coming  home  to  their  business  and 
bosoms."  But  presently  he  came  upon  things  he  knew  were  in 
their  minds — predominant  topics — questions  of  the  hour.  These 
— not  as  "  improving  the  occasion,"  but  as  lifting  them  to  a  higher 
plane — would  be  set  in  a  clearer,  diviner  light  than  that  of 
common  day,  showing  clearly  and  unobtrusively  their  relations  to 
the  things  of  the  spirit.  And  there  would  he  leave  the  matter, 
without  any  wearying  stress  of  exhortation.' 


THE  PREACHER  815 

'  What  interested  him  most  in  religion,"  as  Canon  Beeching 
points  out/  '  was  the  character  of  Christ — its  power  of  satisfy- 
ing every  need  of  man.' 

*  If  God  had  not  given  us  this  witness  (the  Holy  Spirit)  in  our- 
selves, I  think  no  assurance,  not  the  Bible  itself,  would  make 
us  believe.  But  I  am  sure  that  we  have  all  felt  a  power 
within  us,  that  has  protested  against  the  doubts  and  despairs  of 
our  life  and  has  triumphed  over  them  and  has  forced  every  one 
of  us  to  cry  aloud  :  ''  I  know  that  Christ  is  true,  for  He  offers  me 
what  I  need  and  what  no  one  else  offers.  The  world  cannot 
satisfy  me.  ...  I  want  that  which  will  make  me  like  in  nature 
unto  God." ' 

This  passage  is  quoted  from  the  first  sermon  Ainger 
preached  after  his  ordination  as  priest,  and  he  would  not  have 
altered  a  syllable  of  it  on  the  last  day  of  his  life.  No  less 
characteristic  are  the  words  that  follow  : — '  In  religious  know- 
ledge, as  in  all  other  things,  dare  to  be  ignorant  of  many 
things,  that  you  may  have  time  and  brain  and  heart  for  a  few 
things.'  The  aphorism  contains  the  essence  of  what  he 
made  for  as  a  teacher,  and  on  these  '  few  subjects '  he  never 
wearied  of  ringing  the  changes  during  the  quarter  of  a 
century,  and  more,  that  he  spoke  from  the  Temple  pulpit. 
But  it  must  never  be  forgotten  that  the  '  character  of  Christ,' 
as  he  conceived  it,  was  unconditionally  dependent  upon 
Christ's  divinity.  He  admitted  of  no  '  broad  '  interpretations, 
no  figurative  modes  of  speech,  no  Christianity  without  dog- 
matic orthodoxy.  The  division  of  ethics  from  religion  was 
peculiarly  distasteful  to  him,  and  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  think  that  it  could  produce  sound  results,  or  that  any  but 
shallow  natures  believed  in  it. 

'  Having  eliminated  Heaven  and  Hell '  (he  says), '  the  doctrine 
of  the  need  of  an  atonement  with  God,  and  the  hope  of  life 
eternal,  we  present  the  moral  residuum  for  the  consideration  and 
acceptance  of  our  audience.  "  It  is  good  to  be  brotherly  and 
sympathetic ;  it  is  good  to  deny  self  for  others ;  it  is  good  to  be 
earnest  and  hard-working ;  it  is  good  to  be  humble,  and  not  to 
despise  others  who  have   not  our   cleverness  and  our  culture." 

'  Preface  to  The  Gospel  and  Human  Life. 


316         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

Here  is  our  gospel ;  and  we  present  it  for  the  acceptance  of  the 
selfish  man,  who  has  been  playing  his  own  game  and  considering 
his  own  interests  for  so  long,  that  the  habit  has  become  second 
nature  ;  of  the  cynic  who  has  grown  old  in  scorn  of  all  the 
'  windy  ways  of  men";  of  the  intellectual  student,  who  divides 
all  outside  his  circle  into  fools  and  Philistines ;  for  the  bitter  and 
discontented,  who  are  unhappy  unless  they  have  a  grievance ;  for 
the  lounger  through  life,  who  never  did,  and  never  means  to  do, 
a  stroke  of  work  that  he  can  help ;  who  has  accustomed  himself 
to  put  on  one  side  all  the  hardness  of  life,  and  to  shirk  every 
responsibility  that  intei'feres  with  his  love  of  ease.  The  world  is 
full  of  these  ;  and  we  are  told  again  and  again  that  they  are  to  be 
roused,  if  at  all,  not  by  a  theology  which  as  men  of  the  world  they 
know  to  be  exploded,  but  by  setting  forth  the  great  lesson  that 
morality  is  after  all  identical  with  self-interest ;  or  else  that,  as 
members  of  a  social  body,  it  is  necessary  to  be  moral  in  the 
general  interest.  ..."  Abhor  that  which  is  evil,  cleave  to  that 
which  is  good."  A  splendid  and  comprehensive  cure  for  all  the 
evils  of  the  individual  and  of  society — if  only  it  were  followed. 
But  divorced  from  any  assurance  of  power  in  us  to  follow  it,  or 
of  hope  of  its  ultimate  attainment,  it  remains  a  piece  of  advice 
only,  and  not  a  gospel  for  sin-stricken  humanity.'  ^ 

Or  take  this  passage  from  another  sermon  : — 

'"Christianity  without  Dogma" — this  is  the  medicine,  people 
say,  for  this  age,  and  the  only  medicine  which  the  sensible  man 
will  consent  to  take  at  the  hands  of  the  religious  teacher  of  the 
future. 

'  Christ's  morals,  without  any  trouble  as  to  Christ's  own  state- 
ments about  Himself;  Chi'ist's  morals  without  the  Incarnation, 
without  the  Atonement,  without  the  Resurrection :  Christianity, 
in  short,  without  Christ.  But  here,  in  the  instance  of  this  noble- 
man and  of  every  other  sufferer  who  came  in  the  same  way  into 
connection  with  the  Saviour,  and  was  drawn  toward  Him,  and 
made  a  new  creature  by  Him,  it  was  the  precisely  opposite  state 
of  things.  Here  was  a  man  to  whom  not  Christianity,  but  Christ, 
was  the  motive  force  which  changed  him,  and  lifted  him  out  of 
darkness  into  light !  .  .  .  Look  at  Jesus  Christ  as  the  nobleman 
looked  at  Him,  unencumbered  with  any  metaphysics.  Look  at 
Him  as  the  Fountain  of  Health — health  of  body  and  of  soul ;  the 

^  '  The  Enormous  Influence  of  Character '  ( The  Gospel  and  Human  Life). 


THE  PREACHER  317 

Pattern  of  all  Goodness  ;  the  embodiment  of  a  holiness  which  the 
greatest  saint  that  ever  has  lived  since  has  found  infinitely  higher 
than  himself  can  hope  to  attain.  Look  at  Him  as  the  Fountain 
of  Pity — pity  for  His  suffering  and  sinning  fellows ;  the  Fountain 
oi  Love — longing  for  each  one  of  us — the  publican  and  the  harlot 
no  less  than  the  young  agnostic  and  man  of  the  world.  It  is  this 
Interpreter  of  life,  and  Refuge  for  life's  evils,  that  you  are  reject- 
ing when  you  plead  that  you  cannot  be  bothered  with  the  intri- 
cacies of  theology.  Forget  them  for  the  moment,  and  turn 
instead  to  the  Healer  of  the  nobleman's  son.  And  it  may  be,  when 
you  have  learned  what  the  nobleman  learned  from  that  contempla- 
tion, that  even  in  the  despised  creeds  and  theologies  of  the 
divines  you  will  there  learn  something  of  true  and  living  that  you 
had  never  suspected,'  ^ 

Perhaps  the  best  of  his  sermons  are  those  urging  practical 
virtues — more  especially  humility  and  charity.  And  his  own 
spiritual  humility  was  among  the  most  lovable  things  in  him. 
*  What  you  say  of  my  sermons,'  he  wrote  to  a  friend,  '  is 
naturally  very  interesting  to  me.  If  I  hit  hard^  as  you  say, 
it  is  most  assuredly  because  I  am  aiming  blows  at  some  sins 
or  evil  tendencies  that  I  know  of  in  myself  and  not  in  other 
people.  I  should  aim  very  wide  and  hit  very  feebly  if  I  had 
to  guess  from  my  imperfect  judgments  of  my  fellow-mortals.' 

One  of  the  evils  that  he  warred  against  persistently  and 
thought  the  worst  danger  of  our  times  was  arrogance  of  intel- 
lect ;  and  two  of  his  finest  sermons,  '  Culture  and  Temptation,' 
and  '  The  Life  was  the  Light  of  Men,'  deal  more  or  less  with 
this  subject. 

*  It  is  thus'  (he  says  in  the  second  one)  '.  .  .  that  we  are  seek- 
ing to  reverse  these  words  of  St.  John,  and  to  say  "  the  light  was 
the  life  of  men,"  instead  of  ''the  life  was  the  light,"  And  this 
is  no  jugglery  of  words,  no  nice  distinction  of  priests  or  meta- 
physicians. "Life"  is  a  greater  thing  than  "light,"  for  life  is 
light  transmuted  into  action.  Between  light  and  life  there  may 
be  yet  a  great  gulf  fixed,  because  the  one  vital  step  has  yet  to  be 
taken.  .  .  .  Light  shows  us  a  beautiful  picture — one  painted  with 
divine  truth  and  in  divine  colours  ;  but  it  remains,  or  may  remain, 
a  mere  picture,  beautiful  indeed,  and  by  all  men  to  be  admired. 


1  < 


Christ  before  Christianity'  (The  Gospel  and  Human  Life). 


318         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

until  we  have  welcomed  it  and  adopted  it  and  taken  it  to  live 
within  our  own  affections  and  our  own  conscience.  It  is  the 
Pygmalion  statue^  cold  and  dead  as  stone,  until  we  have  fallen 
in  love  with  it ;  then,  and  only  then,  it  warms  into  life — a  breath- 
ing, moving,  energising  source  of  all  future  life  and  growth  for 
ourselves  and  for  others.  Yes,  for  others;  and  here  again  is 
shown  one  vital  difference  between  life  and  light.  Light,  if  it 
try  to  live  alone,  may  serve  only  to  separate  us  from  our  fellows. 
Light  without  love  may  make  us  feel  only  our  difference  from 
our  brethren,  and  plunge  us  into  something  like  intellectual  scorn 
or,  at  best,  social  intolerance  towards  others.  ...  A  great  deal 
of  love  may  lift  the  soul  to  Heaven,  though  accompanied  by  very 
little  light ;  whereas  a  great  deal  of  light,  with  very  little  love, 
may  leave  the  soul  still  in  outer  darkness.'^ 

Humility  and  Charity  were,  in  his  eyes,  inseparable. 

*  A  very  little  intellect,'  so  he  says  elsewhere,  '  makes  a  great 
show  where  it  stimulates  the  subtle  pride  of  being  superior  to 
common  humdrum  folks.  Do  we  any  longer  ask  what  Charity 
should  have  to  do  with  these  things,  or  with  the  cure  of  them  ? 
Just  imagine  a  sudden  passion  of  real  love  for  one's  kind  reaching 
the  dead  conscience  of  the  writer,  or  the  reader,  of  such  stuff. 
Would  not  the  pen  fall  from  the  hand  of  the  one,  and  the  book 
from  the  hand  of  the  other,  and  would  not  both  sink  down  in 
shame  and  remorse  before  the  felt  presence  of  an  outraged  God 
and  an  outraged  neighbour  ?  '  ^ 

Charity,  as  we  know,  he  thought,  incompatible  with  wit — 
and  none  knew  the  dangers  of  wit  better  than  he  did.  His 
austerity  on  the  subject  is  some  measure  of  the  restraint  that 
he  put  upon  his  own  tongue.  Upon  this  theme,  and  upon  the 
charitable  nature  of  humour,  he  was  never  tired  of  dwelling, 
whether  as  preacher  or  as  lecturer — for  his  lecture  of  1895 
on  FalstafF  is  little  more  than  an  embroidery  of  this  text. 

*.  .  .  The  gift  of  ridicule  and  the  love  of  it;  the  habit  of 
scorning  the  words  and  ways  of  others ;  the  constant  flow  of 
persiflage ;  the  cynicism  which  seeks  to  gain  a  reputation  for 
freedom  from  the  failings  and  follies  of  others — these,  as  experi- 

1  '  The  Light  was  the  Life  of  Men  '  ( TAe  Gospel  and  Human  Life). 
2  '  Character  and  Intellect '  {Ibid.). 


THE  PREACHER  319 

ence  shows,  do  not  leave  unaffected  the  spirit  of  tenderness  and 
earnestness  which  together  make  up  the  Christ-like  nature.  .  .  .'  ^ 

Thus,  from  the  Temple  pulpit,  he  summed  up  his  feelings 
on  the  subject. 

One  leading  characteristic  in  these  sermons,  indeed  in 
Ainger^s  whole  nature,  is  his  conviction  of  sin — an  old- 
fashioned  conviction,  in  a  day  which  resents  gloom  and  turns 
sin  into  a  helpless  malady.  But  at  all  times  of  life  it  beset 
him,  though  it  often  seemed  incongruous  with  his  tempera- 
ment and  as  if  it  were  a  random  legacy  left  him  by  his 
Huguenot  forefathers.  To  ignore  it  is  to  ignore  a  key  that 
explained  much  that  was  bewildering  in  him.  It  went  for  a 
great  deal  in  his  unyielding  orthodoxy.  Weighed  down  by 
the  sense  of  sin,  urged  by  the  necessity  of  a  sure  relief,  he 
felt  that  he  found  it  alone  in  Christ  and  in  the  doctrine  of 
Redemption;  and  the  strength  of  his  personal  needs  made 
him  turn  away  from  any  thought  or  study  that  might  lead  to 
the  weakening  of  his  stronghold. 

'  But  I  am  sick  and  I  am  sad, 
And  I  need  Thee,  O  Lord  !' 

This  had  been  his  answer  to  the  preacher  of '  modern  sermons' 
in  the  poem  of  his  earlier  days,  and  the  words  sound  the 
refrain  of  his  spiritual  life  from  first  to  last.  Nor  did  his 
conviction  of  sin  act  only  as  a  deterrent ;  it  gave  him  an 
incentive  to  action. 

'  One  sometimes  feels,'  runs  one  of  his  sermons,  '  there  is  a 
religion  common  among  people,  even  people  of  a  high-minded 
character,  not  lax  in  its  conception  of  the  sacredness  of  duty  and 
the  beauty  of  goodness,  avowing  honestly  indeed  a  belief  that 
morality  is  far  more  important  than  dogma,  and  capable  of 
genuine  admiration  for  things  lovely  and  of  good  report ;  which 
yet  has  lost  in  a  great  measure,  what  to  religious  men  of  old  time 
was  the  natural  and  inevitable  accompaniment  of  all  this,  a 
loathing  of  and  son-owing  for  that  which  is  the  opposite  of  these 
things.  Admiration  and  praise  for  what  is  excellent  seems  to  be 
surviving  the  capacity  for  mourning  over  and  hating  what  is  evil. 
Many  in  our  day  are  bold  enough  to  maintain  that  morality  is  not 

^  '  The  Religious  Aspect  of  Wit  and  Humour '  (Sermons  preached  in  the  Temple). 


320         LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

in  danger,  even  if  religion  be  given  up  as  incredible  and  obsolete. 
.  .  .  They  seem  to  think  that  they  can  live  by  admiration,  but 
this  is  a  maimed  and  partial  view  of  the  ends  at  which  religion  aims. 
The  end  and  aim  of  religion  is  not  to  admire  what  is  highest,  but 
to  love  what  is  highest.  And  these  are  very  different  things. 
Admiration  may  mean  only  standing  still;  it  is  the  attitude  of 
watching,  comparing,  cultivating  a  taste.  It  is  an  aesthetic 
quality,  not  a  moral,  still  less  a  spiritual.  Love  is  an  ardent 
desire  to  attain  and  to  possess :  it  is  not  a  standing  still,  but  a 
pressing  on ;  not  only  a  stretching  forth  the  hands  ripce  ulterioris 
amore,  but  an  urging  forward  of  the  steps,  struggling  and  weary, 
but  not  hopeless,  toward  that  beloved,  much  longed-for  shore. 
There  is  no  necessary  instinct  of  progress  in  admiration,  and 
therefore  no  necessary  sorrow  at  non-attainment.  .  .  .  Love  is  a 
being  drawn  toward  the  thing  loved,  with  a  desire  to  resemble  it 
and  to  be  absorbed  into  it ;  and  with  this  is  of  necessity  bound  up 
a  grief,  a  pain,  a  shame  at  one's  own  unworthiness.'  ^ 

Of  all  Ainger's  utterances,  one  thing  may  safely  be  averred. 
He  dealt  best  with  practical  and  not  with  intellectual 
issues :  he  was  morally,  more  than  mentally,  stimulating. 
The  great  religious  axiom  that  a  creed  is  only  proved  by 
living  it,  and  that  faith  must  mean  a  working  method,  filled 
him,  often  to  the  exclusion  of  deep  thought. 

'  Who,'  he  asks,  '  will  say  that  the  knowledge  of  what  the 
Christian  Ci*eed  has  effected  upon  the  wills  and  affections  of  sinful 
men,  is  not  one  of  the  most,  perhaps  the  most  potent  evidence 
for  the  truth  of  that  creed  ?  I  am  sure  that  this  is  so.  Who  is 
there  of  us  who,  when  we  are  oppressed  by  doubts  and  difficulties  ; 
by  the  arguments  of  this  or  that  writer ;  by  the  weight  of  the 
silences  of  God, — has  not  found  comfort  and  fresh  life  in  dwelling 
upon  some  historic  name,  or  perhaps  some  friend  or  relation  or 
teacher  whose  character  has  been  made  beautiful  through  this 
very  faith  that  for  the  moment  we  are  inclined  to  put  away 
from  us .'' '  2 

Ainger's  spiritual  common  sense  was  perhaps  his  strongest 
quality — this  and  his  moral  insight,  which  was  profound 
and  far-reaching.     But  he  looked  at  all  things — art,  science, 

^  '  Love  and  Sorrow '  ( The  Gospel  and  Human  Life). 
^  '  The  Enormous  Influence  of  Character.' — Ibid, 


THE  PREACHER  321 

literature — through  moral  spectacles,  and  this  tendency  was 
bound  to  injure  thought;  apart  from  the  fact  that  his  mind 
hardly  belonged  to  this  century,  that  he  almost  had  a  fear  of 
science.  It  is  strange  that  when  he  mentions  any  doubter,  he 
generally  assumes  that  he  must  be  either  a  shallow  person, 
or  else  an  unhappy  one.  Of  the  deep-souled  questioner,  of 
the  man  who  is  spiritually  happy  although  he  is  heterodox, 
his  knowledge  seems  to  be  defective.  And  if  such  people 
had  questioned  him,  his  replies  would  hardly  have  seemed 
adequate.     Take,  for  instance,  this  passage  : — 

'  Probably  the  popular  idea  of  a  suffering  creation,  as  distinct 
from  man,  is  of  a  world  in  which  floods,  fires,  earthquakes, 
tornadoes,  at  intei'vals  or  habitually,  scar  the  fair  face  of  nature, 
and  wreck  millions  of  human  lives.  Or  again,  of  a  world  in  which 
the  tiger  prowls,  and  the  serpent  stings,  and  where  the  big  and 
strong  of  the  animal  world  prey  upon  the  weak ;  where  "  Nature 
is  one  with  rapine,"  where  "  the  mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow, 
the  sparrow  speared  by  the  shrike."  How  far,  or  in  what  way, 
these  pangs  and  apparent  iniquities  of  Nature  are  connected  with 
the  wreck  of  man's  primal  innocence  we  cannot  say,  and  we  dare 
not  dogmatise.  God  has  revealed  to  us  in  His  word  no  glimpse 
of  these  things.  Why  the  jungle  is  the  jungle  we  cannot  pro- 
nounce, and  we  are  taught  in  the  most  solemn  of  all  assurances, 
that  the  tens  of  thousands  who  perish  by  earthquake  are  not 
necessarily  more  sinners  than  those  who  live  on  the  slopes  of  some 
fair  English  stream.  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  fathom  these 
mysteries,  which  are  no  less  part  of  creation,  and  of  which  our- 
selves have  habitual  experience.'  ^ 

And  the  paragraph  that  follows  would  hardly  be  a  satisfying 
answer  for  a  Christian  Socialist  from  one  who  would  convince 
him  of  error : — 

'  It  very  soon  appears  from  the  pages  of  the  Acts  of  the 
Apostles  that  various  disciples  possessed  their  own  houses  and 
other  properties ;  and  this  is  inconsistent  with  the  interpretation 
of  this  passage  ^   as   an    abnegation    of  the    first    condition    and 

'  *  Subject  to  Vanity '  { The  Gospel  and  Htiman  Life). 

"^  '  All  that  believed  were  together  and  had  all  things  common  ;  and  sold 
their  possessions  and  goods,  and  parted  them  to  all  men,  as  every  man  had 
need  '  ('  Wiclif  :  The  Gospel  and  Human  Life), 

X 


822         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

necessity  of  civilised  life — possessions,  and  responsibility  for  their 
use.  .  .  .  But  there  is  no  word  of  encouragement  for  those  who 
would  reduce  men  again  to  savagery,  by  neutralising  the  vast 
differences  of  moral  quality  and  intellectual  power  among  men  ; 
who  would  attempt  to  set  at  naught  the  eternal  law  of  God  that 
integrity  and  industry  and  self-denial  mean  success,  and  that 
intemperance  and  sloth  and  dishonesty  mean  failure.' 

It  is  natural  that  one  so  out  of  touch  with  modern  diffi- 
culties should  not  have  been  the  person  to  whom  the  rising 
generation  turned  for  counsel ;  and  it  was  to  the  middle- 
aged,  who  ask  for  help  and  consolation  in  the  duties  and 
anxieties  of  every  day,  that  he  most  effectually  appealed. 

But  on  all  who  heard  him,  the  beauty  of  his  diction  and 
delivery  exercised  what  may  be  called  a  deep  spiritual  charm. 
And  if  we  study  his  sermons — so  quiet  that  we  hardly  realise 
their  eloquence — we  can  cull  from  them  an  anthology  of 
sayings  which  serve  the  turn  both  of  young  and  old.  Perhaps 
we  can  choose  no  better  way  of  finally  summing  up  his  teach- 
ing than  by  gathering  in  a  few  of  these  maxims.  We  give 
them  without  further  comment,  taking  them  from  both  the 
volumes  that  contain  his  Temple  sermons. 

'  We  may  mistake  trust  in  our  clique  for  trust  in  our  belief;  and 
trust  in  our  belief  for  trust  in  God.' 

'  If  religion  does  not  mend  us  here,  it  mars  us.' 

*  Times  change  ;  standards  of  orthodoxy  vary  ;  forms  of  perse- 
cution have  their  day  and  cease  to  be  ;  but  two  things  remain  the 
same,  the  will  and  nature  of  God  and  the  heart  of  mankind.' 

'Though  a  brave  man  must  needs  be  alone  in  the  world,  it  does 
not  follow  that  he  who  chooses  to  walk  alone  is  therefore  brave. 
There  is  a  solitude  in  which  we  may  be,  not  alone  with  God,  but 
alone  with  self.' 

'  People  in  general  do  not  examine  with  particular  care  the 
soundness  of  arguments  alleged  in  support  of  their  own  theories.' 

'  Only  he  who  loves  much  knows  what  it  is  to  feel  that  anger 
which  is  ennobling  and  Godlike.' 

'  It  is  comparatively  easy  to  make  a  person  or  a  cause  ridiculous, 
when  a  solid  refutation  of  them  would  not  be  possible.' 


THE  PREACHER  323 

*  The  practice  of  seeking  out  the  ludicrous  side  of  things  and 
ignoring  all  other  is  a  kind  of  insolence.  It  is  a  refined  method 
of  expressing  contempt  for  the  serious  interests  of  human  nature.' 

'  Other-worldliness  has  been  as  self-absorbing  as  worldliness, 
and  as  valueless  in  its  effect  upon  others.' 

'  Man  has  been  called  a  "  microcosm/'  a  little  world  ;  what  the 
Pharisee  needed  to  realise  was  that  in  every  man  and  woman  was 
comprised  a  little  Heaven,  or  a  little  Hell.  And  this  new  point 
of  view  of  his  kind  could  only  be  won  by  shifting  his  moral  stand- 
point, his  moral  outlook ;  by  standing  side  by  side  with  Jesus  of 
Nazareth,  and  looking  with  His  eyes  upon  the  sin  and  sorrow- 
defaced  forms  and  faces  of  poor  human  nature.' 

'  A  religion  without  love  is  a  religion  without  sorrow.  ...  A 
cheerful  religion  is  a  more  popular  type  than  a  sorrowful  one. 
"  Forgetting  the  things  that  are  behind "  is  a  counsel  of  the 
Apostle's  that  falls  upon  willing  ears,  which  too  easily  ovei'look 
that  he  was  only  speaking  of  past  failures.' 

'Duty  awakening  Love:  Love  awakening  Duty — this  ever- 
working  action  and  reaction  is  surely  the  one  infallible  sign  and 
evidence  of  the  Christian  Faith  being  still  alive  and  a  Power 
among  us.  It  is  at  the  root  still  of  all  Christian  vitality ;  and  it 
is  this  close  relation  between  the  two — either  being  indispensable 
to  the  full  prosperity  of  the  other — that  gives  us  the  means  of 
judging  each,  when  they  appear  to  be  trying  each  to  do  without 
the  other.'  ^ 

'  It  is  something  indeed  to  be  thankful  for,  if  the  world  will 
even  recognise  a  God  outside  of  us — but  how  almost  never  does  it 
take  account  of  the  God  within  tis  ! ' 

'  Whatever,  in  our  pride  of  intellect  and  our  joy  in  imagining 
we  have  outgrown  the  narrow  views  and  superstitions  of  our  fore- 
fathers, we  may  choose  to  announce  to  our  fellows  as  the  position 
we  ourselves  have  taken  up,  we  know  in  our  hearts  that  such 
characters  as  these  are  simply  the  fruit  by  which  the  tree  itself 
may  be  judged.' 

'Better  to  fight  for  Christ  in  the  ways  in  which  the  Templars 
fought,  than  to  recognise  no  cause  as  having  claim  upon  us  other 

^  '  Love,  the  Foundation  of  the  Law  and  the  Prophets  '—a  sermon  published 
separately  and  preached  in  the  Temple  on  the  first  Sunday  in  Advent,  1897,  the 
Sunday  following  the  death  of  Baron  Pollock. 


324         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

than  to  get  through  life  with  the  maximum  of  enjoyment  and  the 
minimum  of  pain.'  ^ 

*  Truisms  really  need  more  constant  urging  than  truths.  Educa- 
tion, meaning  by  that,  the  putting  into  the  hands  of  any  being  or 
class  a  power,  a  knowledge,  before  unattained,  can  have  no  force 
to  abolish  temptation,  or  to  diminish  its  strength.  All  it  can  do 
is  to  remove  the  recipient  from  one  stratum  of  temptation  to 
another.' 

'  When  we  talk  vaguely  of  what  education  is  to  do  for  a  people, 
and  what  a  new  resource  it  places  in  their  hands,  we  overlook  the 
fact  that  the  large  majority  of  those  who  will  receive  it  must  ever 
be  commonplace,  unimaginative,  unintellectual  folks;  leading 
dull,  monotonous,  exhausting  lives,  with  little  margin  for  the 
pursuit  of  book  learning,  even  if  they  had  the  inclination  for  it. 
The  ploughman,  the  bricklayer,  the  domestic  servant,  the  toiling 
mother  of  a  large  family,  will  find  the  labour  which  each  day 
presents  absorb  the  whole  of  their  time  and  energy.  If  we  are 
to  educate  the  children  of  our  poor,  we  are  educating  them  for 
lives  of  unceasing  mechanical  toil.  What  is  education  to  do  for 
them  unless,  above  all  else,  it  teaches  them  the  relative  value  of 
things ;  to  distinguish  what  is  good  and  permanent  from  what  is 
evil  and  passing  away  ? ' 

'In  the  Parables  you  must  make  for  the  one  point  Christ 
meant  to  teach  and  take  the  rest  as  simply  a  surrounding  story 
without  moral  intent.'  ^ 

'Let  us,  while  we  turn  to  God's  Word  to  learn  the  secrets  of 
our  spiritual  being,  not  linger  upon  questions  which  minister  to 
strife  and  envying.  And  when  our  earth  has  played  its  part  in 
the  economy  of  the  universe,  and  is  seen  by  the  few  spheres 
which  are  within  its  ken  to  pass  away  as  a  wandering  fire.  Right 
and  Wrong  will  not  have  lost  their  primeval  significance  ;  and 
the  souls  which  have  yearned  and  laboured  for  rest  in  the  home 
of  spirits  will  find  that  rest  in  Him  who  was  and  is  and  is 
to  be.' 

As  we  write  down  these  bare  extracts,  they  call  out  for  his 
voice  and  his  presence,  for  that  quiet,  vibrating  quality  of 

1  '  The  Knights  of  the  Red  Cross.'  Sermon  preached  on  the  seven  hundredth 
anniversary  of  the  consecration  of  the  Temple  Church,  1885. 

2  This  is  not  quoted  from  a  sermon,  but  from  a  conversation  about  the 
Parable  of  the  Unjust  Judge  which  he  had  with  Mrs.  Andrew  Lang. 


THE  PREACHER  325 

tone  which  made  his  reading  so  unique.  These  are  things 
that  none  who  heard  him  can  forget — that  none  who  did  not 
hear  him  can  reaHse.  But  his  distinction,  his  function  as  a 
preacher,  can  be  understood  without  them.  If  Canon  Ainger 
most  helped  the  minds  that  had  no  fundamental  difficulties, 
he  helped  these  effectually.  If  he  did  not  exactly  kindle  a 
flame,  he  kept  a  flame  alive.  And  he  taught  the  men  and 
women  who  bore  it  aloft,  that  only  by  quietness  and  steadiness 
could  they  hope  to  keep  it  alight.  This  he  succeeded  in 
doing  because  he  knew  their  hearts  so  well ;  because  he  under- 
stood the  needs  of  human  nature.  For  the  words  that  he  once 
used  when  speaking  of  Dr.  Vaughan,  might  equally  be  spoken 
of  himself : — 

'  Putting  on  one  side '  (they  run)  '  the  unfailing  freshness  of 
thought  and  treatment ;  the  grace,  always  dignified  and  elevated 
.  .  .  putting,  I  say,  on  one  side  these  partly  intellectual  endow- 
ments, which  never  in  themselves  alone  could  win  and  retain  the 
allegiance  of  the  hearer,  may  I  not  speak  of  those  "yet  more 
excellent  gifts,"  the  deep  understanding  of  the  human  heart,  the 
singular  power  of  reading  the  conscience,  the  detecting  of  the 
many  sophistries  of  the  human  will;  the  laying  of  the  hand  on 
them,  never  without  tenderness,  with  "here  thou  ailest,  and 
here  "  ?  And  last,  but  surely  not  least  among  such  gifts,  the  rare 
and  blessed  one  of  moderation,  seeking  ever  to  avoid  the  false- 
hood of  extremes.' 

This  passage,  from  one  of  his  Temple  sermons,^  forms  no 
unfitting  close  to  a  chapter  on  his  work  as  a  preacher. 

^  '  Preaching '  ( The  Gospel  and  Human  Life). 


CHAPTER     XVIII 

LATER   WRITINGS 

*  I  HAVE  been  to  Dilke's  this  morning,  and  returned  with  a  lot 
of  Hood  MSS.  of  great  interest :  and  I  begin  to  hope  that  I 
may  yet  unravel  the  problem  of  his  sad  life  of  difficulty  and 
suffering."'  Thus  wrote  Canon  Ainger  when  he  first  set  to 
work  upon  his  edition  of  Thomas  Hood — he  never  allowed 
him  to  be  called  '  Tom,'  a  familiarity  which,  as  he  points  out, 
was  not  used  in  the  poefs  lifetime.  In  the  pages  of  biography 
with  which  he  prefaces  the  edition,  Ainger  realised  the  hope 
which  he  expresses.  '  I  almost  think  it  is  my  best  piece  of 
prose  thus  far,'  he  said,  seven  years  after  it  was  published ; 
and  if  some  lovers  of  his  Life  of  Charles  Lamb  will  hardly 
agree  that  it  is  his  best,  they  will  perhaps  admit  that  it  ranks 
as  his  completest  bit  of  work.  He  himself  wished  to  write  a 
longer  study  on  the  same  subject.  A  Lfe  of  Hood  for  the 
'  English  Men  of  Letters  Series '  was  the  last  task  that  he 
contemplated,  a  few  weeks  before  his  death,  and  it  certainly 
would  have  shown  us  no  falling  off  in  his  admiration.  To 
hear  Hood  depreciated  as  a  poet  always  roused  his  opposition. 
'  When  you  have  read  his  sad  and  struggling  history,  you 
will  think  differently  of  him,'  he  once  wrote  to  a  friend  who 
did  not  place  Hood's  genius  high  enough;  and  here  he  sounds 
that  note  of  personal  liking  which  always  had  so  much  to  do 
in  deciding  his  literary  affinities.  This  predilection  of  his  for 
Hood's  poetry  must  seem  an  old-fashioned  one  to  modern 
minds.     '  I  remember,  I  remember,' '  Stitch,  stitch,  stitch,'  and 

*  We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night,'  are  lyrics  now 
so  hackneyed  that  the  present  generation  is  apt  too  much  to 
overlook  their  beauty  and  their  freshness  ;  nor  do  we,  who  live 
in  these  days  of  realism,  sufficiently  appreciate  the  forcible 
originality  which  went  to  the  creation  of  such  a  poem  as  '  The 

326 


LATER  WRITINGS  327 

Song  of  the  Shirt ' — a  poem,  it  should  be  remembered,  which 
was  written  before  the  time  oi  Alton  Locke.  But,  for  the  bulk 
of  Hood's  poetical  work,  its  unevenness  must  be  admitted,  and  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  Ainger's  love  for  its  author  often  made 
him  overrate  it.  This  is  especially  the  case  with  many  of  the 
humorous  poems,  beginning  with  the  celebrated  Miss  Kil- 
mansegg^  the  fun  of  which  seems  too  elaborate,  too  dependent 
upon  verbal  quips,  to  move  us  to-day  to  real  laughter.  Perhaps 
Canon  Ainger'^s  sympathy  with  it  was  largely  due  to  the  fact 
that  he  felt  Hood's  wit  akin  to  his  own.  The  last  jest  that 
he  ever  uttered,  a  few  days  before  his  death,  was  one  that 
Thomas  Hood  made  on  a  similar  occasion — the  application  of 
a  mustard  plaster.  '  A  great  deal  of  mustard  to  very  little 
meat,'  Hood  had  said,  and  Ainger  enjoyed  repeating  the  words. 
Both  men  had  the  gift  for  quick,  unexpected  analogy,  the 
feeling  for  pathos  which  enhances  wit,  the  genius  for  adapting 
quotations,  above  all,  mastery  of  the  art  of  punning.  Nowhere 
has  that  art  been  more  delicately  analysed  than  in  this 
memoir  of  the  poet,  or  in  the  delightful  little  preface  that 
Ainger  once  wrote  to  Hood's  Humorous  Poems.  In  either 
work  he  has  with  equal  brilliance  set  forth  all  his  theories  of 
punning,  its  moral  significance,  its  aesthetic  uses.  From  the 
lesser  of  these  two  essays  we  have  already  quoted,  but  he 
plays  round  the  same  ideas  with  more  leisure  in  the  longer 
Introduction.  '  Hood  punned,'  he  says  (and  he  might  have 
said  it  of  himself),  '  because  he  could  not  help  it.  .  .  .  His 
puns  display  that  quality,  in  which  they  are  unique,  of  falling 
naturally  into  their  places,  as  if  they  had  met  the  writer  on 
his  road,  rather  than  had  been  sought  out  by  him,  as  if, 
indeed,  it  would  have  been  pedantic  to  avoid  them,  merely 
because  they  happened  to  be  puns.  Hood's  puns,  at  their 
best,  never  leave  on  the  reader  the  impression  of  having  been 
led  up  to.  Even  in  a  serious  mood,  when  his  intention  is 
undeniable,  he  has  no  fear  lest  the  wit  should  lower  or  belittle 
the  truth  enforced.  Hood's  method,  indeed,  is  wholly  guilt- 
less of  cynicism,  and  in  this  respect,  as  in  so  many  others,  he 
is  out  of  key  with  the  so-called  "new  humour"  of  to-day.' 
By  the  light  of  these  ideas,  no  doubt,  Hood's  jokes  seemed 


328         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

more  glorious  in  Ainger's  eyes  than  they  really  were.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  famous  pun  upon  Newgate,  in  the  critical 
lines  upon  Elizabeth  Fry's  scheme  of  setting  up  her  school 
in  prison,  instead  of  outside  it. 

'  I  like  your  carriage  and  your  silken  grey^ 
Your  dove-like  habits  and  your  silent  preaching. 
But  I  don't  like  your  Newgatory  teaching.' 

Even  this  verbal  feat,  which  Coleridge  called  '  transcendent,*" 
hardly  appeals  to  us  now  as  tiie  highest  form  of  wit.  There 
are,  however,  other  puns  in  the  poems  (the  like  of  which 
Ainger,  too,  sometimes  created)  which  flash  a  moral  truth, 
or  epitomise  a  character  in  a  way  unattainable  by  graver 
means. 

'  An  even  more  thrilling  and  perhaps  inevitable  use  of  the 
double  meaning  of  a  word '  (he  continues),  '  is  to  be  found  in  a 
stanza  from  the  '  Song  of  the  Shirt ' : — 

'  While  underneath  the  eaves 
The  brooding  swallows  cling 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 
And  twit  me  with  the  spring.' 

This  is  probably  the  most  pathetic  pun  in  the  language,  and  is  in 
itself  sufficient  answer  to  those  who  would  question  the  legitimacy 
of  this  form  of  wit  in  the  hands  of  genius.  And  that  Hood's 
peculiar  faculty  justifies  the  use  of  the  word  genius  cannot,  I 
think,  be  gainsaid.  As  a  poet,  he  cannot  indeed  be  placed  in 
the  first  rank,  or  even  in  the  second,  but  genius  is  no  question 
of  place  in  a  class-list.  Hood  has  a  real  individuality,  which 
gives  him  the  primary  claim  to  the  title ;  and  he  has  charm  and 
sincerity  to  boot.  Through  these  things  he  lives  and  will  live, 
when  the  manifold  echoes  of  other  poets,  which  abound  in  every 
generation,  are  died  away  and  forgotten.' 

Other  links  bound  the  younger  to  the  elder  humorist. 
Hood's  sad  story  attracted  Ainger,  and  small  wonder  that  it 
did  so.  From  the  day  that,  at  twenty-two,  Hood  was  left 
with  the  whole  charge  of  his  four  orphaned  sisters,  to  his  last 
struggles,  twenty-four  years  after,  with  failure  and  poverty  and 
heart-disease,  Alfred  Ainger  follows  his  fortunes  with  never- 
failing  love  and  with  that  understanding  of  the  heart  which 


LATER  WRITINGS  329 

seems  to  lend  simplicity  to  style.     The  sudden  responsibility 
which  thus  fell  on  one  so  young  and  so  poor  was  a  point  in 
common  between  the  life  of  Hood  and  that  of  Lamb ;  and  a 
point  which  must  have  especially  come  home  to  their  bio- 
grapher.    One  of  the  only  lucky  events  in  Thomas  Hood's 
life  was,  indeed,   his   meeting  with    Charles   Lamb,  and   his 
record  of  it  is,  to  those  who  know  it,  worth  more  than  many 
of  his  verses.     He  was  already  the  sub-editor  of  Taylor  and 
Hessey's  magazine,  when  one  day,  as  he  sat  correcting  proofs 
in  the  office, '  the  door  opened  and  in  came  a  stranger,  a  figure 
remarkable  at  a  glance,  with  a  fine  head  on  a  small  spare 
body,  supported  by  almost  immaterial  legs.     He  was  clothed 
in  sables  of  a  bygone  fashion,  but  there  was  something  want- 
ing— or  something  present — about  him  that  certified  that  he 
was  neither  a  divine,  nor  a  physician,  nor  a  schoolmaster.  .  .  . 
He  looked  .  .  .  like  (what  he  really  was)  a  literary  modern 
antique,  a  new-old  author,  a  living  anachronism,  contemporary 
at    once    with  Burton    the  elder   and    Colman    the   younger. 
Meanwhile  he  advanced  with  rather  a  peculiar  gait,  his  walk 
was  plantigrade,  and  with  a  cheerful  "  How  d'  ye  ? "  and  one 
of  the  blandest,  sweetest  smiles  that  ever  brightened  a  manly 
countenance,  held  out  two  fingers  to  the  editor.  .  .  .  After 
the  literary  business  had  been  settled,  the  editor  invited  his 
contributor  to  dinner,  adding  "  We  shall  have  a  hare."    "  And 
— and — and — and    many   friends."      The   hesitation   in   his 
speech,  and  the  readiness  of  the  allusion,  were  alike  character- 
istic of  the  .  .  .  delicate-minded  and   large-hearted   Charles 
Lamb.''     How  the  friendship  went  on  growing ;    how   Hood 
was  admitted  to  the  circle  of  Ella's  cronies ;  how  he  married 
Miss    Jane    Reynolds,    the    sister    of   Keats's    friend ;    how 
children  were  born  to  him  and  how  he  loved  them ;  how  five 
out  of  seven  died   before  they  grew  up   and  how  he  toiled 
courageously  to  keep  them;    how  he  tried  every  journalistic 
venture  and  always  failed  to  make  money ;  how  at  last  he  left 
England  with  his  family  and  lived  in  exile  for  economy's  sake, 
first  in  Germany,  then  at  Ostend  ;  how  he  returned  to  make 
a  success  with  Hood's  Ozan  and  yet  to  reap  no  monetary  gain ; 
and  how  all  his  life  was  cheered   by  friendship  and    made 


330         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

beautiful  by  his  devotion  to  his  wife,  who  remained  his 
'  dearest  and  best '  till  he  died,  his  hand  in  hers— all  this 
Canon  Ainger  tells  us  with  the  quiet  distinction  that  is  his. 
Perhaps  nowhere  do  we  see  Hood  more  clearly — the  Hood 
that  Ainger  would  have  us  see — than  in  some  words  of  the 
poet's  own  in  his  preface  to  his  National  Tales,  his  only 
volume  of  prose. 

'.  .  .  Because  I  have  jested  elsewhere,  it  does  not  follow  that 
I  am  incompetent  for  gravity,  of  which  any  owl  is  capable,  or 
proof  against  melancholy,  which  besets  even  the  ass.  Those 
who  can  be  touched  by  neither  of  these  moods  rank  lower 
indeed  than  both  of  these  creatures.  It  is  from  none  of  the 
player's  ambition,  which  has  led  the  buffoon  by  a  rash  step  into 
the  tragic  buskin,  that  I  assume  the  sadder  humour,  but  because 
I  know  from  certain  passages  that  such  affections  are  not  foreign 
to  my  nature.  During  my  short  lifetime  I  have  often  been  as 
"sad  as  night,"  and  not  hke  the  young  gentleman  of  France, 
merely  from  wantonness.  It  is  the  contrast  of  such  leaden  and 
golden  fits  that  lend  a  double  relish  to  our  days.  A  life  of  mere 
laughter  is  like  music  without  its  bass  ;  or  a  picture  (conceive  it) 
of  vague,  unmitigated  light ;  whereas  the  occasional  melancholy, 
like  these  grand  rich  glooms  of  old  Rembrandt,  produces  an 
incomparable  effect,  and  a  very  grateful  relief.' 

These  words  may  be  a  clue  to  the  attraction  which  Ainger 
felt  for  Thomas  Hood,  because,  again,  they  are  a  clue  to  so 
much  that  he  recognised  in  himself.  And  perhaps  the  most 
thoughtful  pages  in  the  memoir  are  those  in  which  he  sums 
up  the  effect  of  Hood's  qualities  upon  our  conception  of 
poetry : — 

'  Indeed  the  peculiar  genius  of  Hood  may  oblige  us  to  recon- 
sider more  than  one  of  our  favourite  literary  canons ;  and  among 
them,  the  relation  of  Wit  and  Poetry.  Hood's  wit  is  constantly 
poetical,  and  his  poetry  is  so  frequently  witty  as  to  make  the 
division  of  his  verse,  for  editorial  purposes,  into  ''  serious  "  and 
"humorous,"  a  matter  of  real  difficulty.  We  are  all  agreed  that 
wit  is  heightened  by  an  element  of  poetic  fancy.  The  question 
remains : — Is  Poetry,  when  in  intention  serious,  helped  or 
hindered,  strengthened  or  weakened,  by  admixture  with  Wit.> 
The  question  has  often  been  raised  and  discussed  in  connection 


LATER  WRITINGS  331 

with  the  euphuistic  poets — "Metaphysical"  or  Fantastic— of  the 
seventeenth  century,  Cowley,  Lovelace,  Cleveland,  and  the  rest. 
And  the  question  has  been  so  far  settled,  that  we  are  all  agreed 
that  the  habitual  use  of  "  conceits,"  wherein  is  mere  ingenuity, 
is  fatal  to  any  enduring  pleasure.  In  this  shape  the  thing  was 
then  a  fashion,  and  faded  in  due  course  like  all  other  fashions. 
The  bulk  of  the  poetry  of  these  men  is  unreadable  and  forgotten. 
But  yet  there  were  true  poets  among  them  who  now  and  then 
made  it  abundantly  clear  that  Wit  and  Poetry  are  two  sisters, 
who  may  "dwell  together  in  one  house."  Cowley,  who  has 
become,  through  Johnson's  famous  memoir,  the  typical  example 
of  the  English  concetlist,  has  proved,  if  only  by  his  famous  com- 
parison of  Bacon  to  the  Lawgiver  on  Mount  Pisgah — privileged 
to  behold,  but  not  to  enter  the  Promised  Land— that  what  is  in 
essence  pure  wit  is  not  distinguishable  from  the  very  highest 
Poetry. 

'  Herbert,  Crashaw,  Donne,  in  like  manner,  have  their  abun- 
dant and  perishable  affectations.  Yet  all  of  these  in  turn  show 
how  true  wit  may  subserve  the  highest  aims  of  the  Poet ;  and 
that  in  fact,  so  far  from  Wit  and  Poetry  being  irreconcilable, 
they  shade  and  pass  into  one  another  by  gradations  quite 
imperceptible.  Who  shall  decide,  on  the  moment,  whether 
Waller's  couplet — 

*'The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed. 
Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  which  time  had  made" — 

is  to  be  pronounced  witty  or  poetical }  The  truth  is  that  it  is 
both ;  and  that  the  two  are  fused,  beyond  possibility  of  separa- 
tion, by  the  intensity  and  sincerity  of  the  Truth  enforced.' 

The  rest  of  Ainger's  literary  work  in  the  last  twelve  years 
of  his  life  consisted  mainly  in  his  lectures  at  the  Royal 
Institution  and  elsewhere ;  in  a  few  pleasurable  articles  con- 
tributed to  The  Pilot,  notably  two  about  Chaucer  and  one  on 
'  Charm  in  Literature ' ;  and  in  his  Life  of  Crabbe,  written  for 
the  English  Men  of  Letters  Series. 

As  for  his  lectures,  the  best  ones  are,  as  always,  upon 
Shakespeare,  and  his  finest  sayings,  on  the  moral  greatness  of 
the  plays.  There  is,  indeed,  nothing  to  add  to  our  comments 
on  his  earlier  lectures,  and  perhaps  the  readiest  way  to  prove 
the  constant  unity  of  thought  that  they  show  is  to  gather 


332         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

together  two  or  three  passages  from  them,  and  to  let  the  reader 
judge  for  himself.  Those  that  follow  are  only  a  few  examples 
among  many  which  are  of  much  the  same  kind. 

The  first  is  in  answer  to  the  argument  that  Shakespeare 
was  the  result  of  the  great  age  in  which  he  lived,  and  that 
he  could  not  have  existed  without  a  public  that  shared  his 
convictions. 

'  If  all  Shakespeare's  contempoiviry  poets  showed  even  in 
general  outline  the  qualities  we  note  and  admire  in  him,  then  a 
very  strong  case  would  be  made  out  for  this  view.  But  is  this 
so  ?  Take,  for  example,  the  instance  of  Shakespeare's  contem- 
porary, Marlowe.  By  general  agreement  his  verse  was  the  finest 
("  Marlowe's  mighty  line,"  as  Jonson  called  it)  of  the  time,  next 
to  Shakespeare's.  His  power  of  conceiving  and  treating  tragic 
situations  was  marvellous.  Passages  in  his  plays  are  of  singular 
power  and  grandeur.  But  the  ethical  virtue  of  his  dramas — all 
that  quality  which  should  have  come  to  him  from  the  hopes, 
aspirations,  new-born  joys  of  his  time — was  missing.  He  had  had 
a  more  thorough  school  and  college  education  than  Shakespeare ; 
he  was  in  no  less  close  touch  with  the  world  of  wits  and  scholars 
in  London ;  but  he  was  dissipated  and  profligate  and  defiantly 
anti-religious,  and  died  in  a  tavern  brawl.  He  had  no  humour, 
as  far  as  it  is  possible  to  discover,  and  no  power,  apparently,  to 
conceive  the  beautiful  or  admirable  in  the  female  character.  If 
it  was  the  age  that  evoked  what  was  finest  and  most  character- 
istic in  Shakespeare,  why  did  it  fail  to  produce  something  akin 
to  it  in  Marlowe  .''  Must  not  the  answer  be  that  it  was  not  there 
in  Marlowe  to  be  evoked .''  Shakspeare's  lago  was  a  scouudrel, 
and  a  pessimist,  but  surely  he  was  right  when  he  said,  '''Tis 
in  ourselves  that  we  are  thus  and  thus."  "  The  abysmal  depths  of 
personality "  will  not  bear  to  be  neglected,  I  think,  in  our 
estimates  of  the  sources  of  a  poet's  strength  or  weakness.  If  a 
man  may  be  a  pessimist  in  an  optimistic  age,  might  he  not  be  an 
optimist  in  a  pessimistic  one  .'*... 

'  It  is  this  quality  of  humanity  which  constitutes  the  supreme 
ethical  virtue  of  Shakespeare  and  (be  it  in  justice  said)  of  the 
noblest  of  his  contemporaries.  It  is  not  the  poet's  own  ethical 
preaching;  not  the  preaching  of  the  good  and  virtuous  person- 
ages of  the  play;  not  even  the  presence  of  good  and  virtuous 
characters  themselves,  that  accounts  for  the  final  impression  left 
on  us  by  any  one  of  his  dramas  as  a  whole.     Nor  is  it,  as  I  have 


LATER  WRITINGS  333 

said,  any  strict  and  invariable  notion  of  ''  poetical  justice."  Of 
poetical  justice,  as  that  imbecile  phrase  is  ordinarily  understood, 
there  is  none  in  Shakespeare,  or  at  least  so  little  that  some 
foreign  critics,  and  even  critics  at  home,  have  thought  good  to 
scorn  at  the  denouements  of  some  of  the  dramas,  because  the 
punishment  lights  often  upon  innocent  and  guilty  alike.  .  .  . 
Shakespeare,  when  he  is  dealing  with  the  serious  issues  of  life, 
never  regards  what  the  "barren  spectator"  (for  whom  he  seems 
ever  to  have  felt  a  well-grounded  contempt)  would  like  to  have 
seen.  .  .  .  The  tragedy  that  Nicholas  Nickleby  translated  for  Mr. 
Crummies  contains  the  kind  of  episode  that  pleases  the  ground- 
ling. .  .  .  But  Shakespeare  did  not  write  moral  fairy-tales,  even 
when  he  took  in  hand  a  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  or  a 
Tempest.   .  .  . 

'To  represent  on  the  stage  Margate  Sands,  or  Charing  Cross, 
or  a  busy  day  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  with  every  detail  attended 
to,  will  attract  tens  of  thousands.  .  .  .  And  though  this  kind  of 
realism  is  very  crude,  and  properly  condemned  in  literary  and 
artistic  circles,  there  are  other  kinds  of  realism  which  seem  to 
be  held  quite  legitimate.  To  reflect  certain  sections  of  modern 
society,  to  show  smart  people  always  making  rude  answers  to  one 
another  (which  is  called  "  epigram  "),  and  of  course  to  make  them 
sail  very  near  the  wind  in  indelicate  allusion,  this,  because  a  fair 
transcript  of  a  certain  society  of  the  day,  is  provided  as  the  attrac- 
tion of  many  modern  comedies.  But  it  is  not  of  the  outward 
life,  or  social  manners  of  people,  that  Shakespeare  was  thinking. 
"  Nature  "  with  him  meant  "  human  nature,"  not  any  particular 
type  or  temporary  garb  that  it  wears.  But  he  meant  more  than 
this.  He  meant  the  laws  which  govern  human  nature  ;  the  laws 
of  cause  and  effect,  of  conduct  and  the  consequences  of  conduct. 
To  these  it  was  his  business  to  "hold  up  the  mirror"  ;  and  unless 
he  did  so,  how  was  it  possible  that  the  characters  he  drew  should 
appear  other  than  either  sentimental  abstractions  or  grotesque 
and  impertinent  interpolations  in  the  plot .''... 

'FalstafF's  wit  is  magnificent,  but  it  is  absolutely  unscrupulous. 
When  he  gets  the  best  in  argument  it  is  always  by  an  intellectual 
coup  de  maitre,  never  by  a  moral.  Exaggeration  (which  means,  in 
effect,  "never  mind  truth— go  in  for  point")  has  never  been  raised 
to  such  an  art.  "  I  am  out  of  pocket  by  you,"  poor  Mrs.  Quickly 
complains  of  him  with  bitter  tears.  "You  owe  me  money.  Sir 
John,  for  your  diet  and  by-drinkings  .  .  .  and  now  you  pick  a 
quarrel  to  beguile  me  of  it ;  I  bought  you  a  dozen  of  shirts  to 


334         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

your  back."  To  which  FalstafF  retorts  :  "  Dowlas,  filthy  dowlas  " 
— dowlas  is  one  of  the  coarsest  kinds  of  linen,  you  will  under- 
stand— "I  have  given  them  away  to  bakers'  wives,  and  they  have 
made  bolters  of  them."  ...  It  is  indeed  splendide  inendax !  a 
miracle  of  exaggeration.  .   .   . 

'  Or  again,  take  the  instance  of  his  promptness  ...  in  what 
follows :  "  And  for  a  retreat !  how  swiftly  will  this  Feeble,  the 
woman's  tailor,  run  off! "  He  will  be  so  useful  in  a  retreat.  WTiat 
magnificent  resource  in  the  mind  who  thought  of  this !  How 
magnificent — and  how  unscrupulous  !  .  .  .  Shakespeare  has  done 
him  no  wrong — he  has  built  up  indeed  a  character  on  the  false 
conception  of  a  noble  Englishman ;  but  he  has  committed  no 
treason  against  the  eternal  truths  of  the  human  conscience. 
"  Oldcastle  died  a  martyr,  and  this  (FalstafF)  is  not  the  man." 
This  was  true,  and  needed  saying  in  vindication  of  the  great 
Lollard,  but  "fat"  Jack  witnessed  also  in  his  death  to  certain 
truths  as  to  "  conduct  being  four-fifths  of  life,"  of  which  the 
world  will  never  cease  to  need  Shakespeare's  imperishable  re- 
minder. .  .  . 

'Shakespeare,  after  the  lightest  and  most  fantastic  of  his 
comedies,  is  never  without  the  felt  presence  of  this  moral  ele- 
ment. It  is  this  which  from  first  to  last — though  the  incidents 
may  be  terrible,  or  ghastly,  or  improbable — keeps  the  whole 
range  of  his  drama  sweet ;  the  one  strongest,  most  enduring 
charm  ;  the  thing  on  which  his  enduring  popularity  with  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men  most  surely  rests.   .  .  . 

'Suffering,  and  the  transfiguration  of  all  noble  suffering  into 
victory ;  goodness  defeated  but  never  humiliated ;  the  littleness 
of  man  always  made  to  bring  into  light,  not  shadow,  the  real 
greatness  of  man — it  is  in  the  "strength  of  that  meat"  that  we 
rise  up  fortified  from  the  study  of  these  mighty  works.' 

If  Ainger  was  at  his  best,  he  was  also  at  his  happiest  in 
the  company  of  Shakespeare.  And  not  only  when  he  read 
or  wrote.  '  To  see  him,"*  says  Dr.  Ward,  '  when  he  could  give 
himself  up  wholly  to  Shakespeare — and  be,  as  it  were,  totus  in 
illo — was  indeed  a  sight  worth  seeing.  I  wish  I  could  date 
a  visit  which  my  brother-in-law,  George  Loveday  (who  was  of 
service  to  him  in  connection  with  his  edition  of  Lamb's  Letters), 
and  I  paid  with  him  to  Stratford-on-Avon,  but  it  must 
have  been  some  time  in  the  late  sixties  or  early  seventies. 


LATER  WRITINGS  335 

We  slept  two  nights,  I  think,  at  the  "  Red  Horse,"  where  I 
wish  Ainger  might  have  met  Washington  Irving — only,  as 
the  Scotchman  said,  this  "couldna  be'' — and  we  had  time 
for  a  walk  to  Charlecote  and  through  what  we  were  still 
young  and  happy  enough  to  believe  to  have  been  Mr.  Justice 
Shallow's  deer-park.  Eheu ! '  And  with  Stratford  Ainger's 
name  will  always  be  associated,  for  there  it  was,  in  the  Parish 
Church  and  close  by  his  master's  famous  bust,  that  he 
preached  his  sermon  upon  Shakespeare,  at  the  dedication  of 
the  pulpit  given  by  Sir  Theodore  Martin,  in  memory  of  his 
wife,  Helen  Faucit,^  the  actress  of  Rosalind  and  Juliet. 

Apart  from  Shakespeare,  Ainger's  later  lectures  ranged 
over  many  subjects:  over  Swift  and  Burns,  Cowper  and  Scott, 
Children's  Books  in  the  past,  and  his  journey  to  trace  Charles 
Lamb  in  Hertfordshire.  And  in  all  of  them  the  same  remark 
holds  good — it  is  the  moral  judgments  which  are  strongest. 
'  There  was  always  something  of  the  prophet  in  FitzGerald's, 
as  in  all  fine  criticism' — so  Ainger  once  wrote  of  Edward 
FitzGerald ;  ^  and  if  we  apply  the  saying  to  himself,  it  is  of  his 
moral  insight  that  it  will  be  found  to  hold  good.  In  every 
writer  that  he  deals  with,  it  is  the  ethical  quality  that  he  first 
makes  for;  this  it  is  which  half  unconsciously  governs  his 
opinion  of  the  poet  or  the  novelist.  And  it  seems  for  this 
reason  mainly,  that,  as  a  recent  critic  and  admirer  points 
out,^  he  is  least  at  home  with  Swift ;  for  this  reason,  too,  it 
may  be  added,  he  is  most  at  his  ease  with  Cowper.  But  here 
again,  and  in  all  his  later  writings,  we  can  only  get  some 
notion  of  his  thought  by  quoting  from  his  work ;  by  putting 
together  a  few  of  the  extracts  that  seem  the  most  clearly  to 
reveal  him.     We  give  them  without  further  explanation. 

'  Swift's  heart  and  his  creed  were  in  deadly  conflict ;  his  heart 
pleaded  with  him  to  be  human,  his  creed  said,  "  To  be  human  is 
to  be  despicable  or  brutal."     When  he  looked  on  Stella,  his  heart 

1  Her  maiden  name,  and  that  under  which  she  had  acted.  She  afterwards 
became  Lady  Martin. 

*  Hampstead  An77tial,  1 900. 

^  Times  Literary  Supplement,  Dec.  1st,  1905.  (Review  of  Lectures  and 
Essays). 


336         LIFE   OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

may  have  often  said,  "  Take  her  and  be  happy,"  his  creed  said, 
"  No,  wedded  love  is  also  a  delusion  and  a  snare."  '  ^ 

'James  Smith,  of  Rejected  Addresses  fame,  described  the 
poet  Crabbe  as  "  Pope  in  worsted  stockings."  It  is  a  smart 
epigram,  but  no  more  precisely  true  than  epigrams  usually  are. 
But  if  it  were  legitimate  we  might  further  adapt  it  to  Cowper 
and  call  him  "  Pope  in  a  white  tie."  Not  that  that  would  be  true 
either.  ...  It  was  neither  the  moralisings  nor  the  religious 
denunciations  that  made  these  poems  a  revelation  and  a  delight. 
It  was  not  even  the  witty  and  felicitous  lines  and  phrases  which 
are  .  .  .  still  embedded  in  the  daily  speech  of  many  who  never 
read  a  poem  of  Cowper's  straight  through  in  their  lives.  .  .  . 
Rather  was  it  the  home-felt  scenes  in  the  "  Winter  Morning's 
Walk,"  and  the  "Walk  at  Noon,"  and  the  "Winter  Evening" 
descriptions  .  .  .  prompted  by  deep  personal  affection  and  deep 
personal  piety.  .  .  .  Here  are  no  longer  vague  platitudes  about 
the  "  Grove"  and  the  "  plain  "  and  the  "  bowers  "  (to  rhyme  with 
"flowers"),  but  the  eye  of  the  minute  obse  ver  —  minute  as 
Wordsworth  or  Tennyson.' ^ 

'  Burns's  songs,  in  this  day  when  such  helpless  and  aimless 
critical  deliverances  are  heard  all  round  about  us,  come  in  oppor- 
tunely to  remind  us  that  in  literature  and  in  art  the  interval 
between  first  and  second-rate  is  practically  infinite,  while  those 
between  second,  third,  and  fourth  are  comparatively  insigni- 
ficant.' " 

'  Instead  of  adopting  a  style  like  that  of  some  one  distinguished 
predecessoi-,  let  us  adopt  a  style  (our  young  men  seem  to  say)  as 
unlike  as  possible  to  anything  ever  used  before.  Instead  of  a 
style  used  by  somebody,  we  will  invent  a  style  used  by  nobody. 
And  many  a  young  author  has  tried  this  last  plan,  and  has  often 
received  a  most  encouraging  reception  from  the  critics  on  his 
appeai'ance,  on  the  strength  of  it.' 

(After  saying  that  in  old  days  new  wi'iters  used  to  seek  fame  by 
imitating  great  writers.)  '  The  great  spirits  of  our  literature  who 
stand  with  heads  far  above  the  fleeting  mists  of  earth,  not  often 
fail  to  recognise  kindred  greatness.  As  "deep  answers  unto 
deep,"  so  "height  answers  unto  height,"  and  the  mighty  ones 
who  tower  above  the  crowd  know  one  another  from  afar,  and  are 
not  deceived.'  * 

1  Lecture  on  Swift.  ^  Lecture  on  Cowper. 

^  Lecture  on  Burns.  *  Lecture  on  Scott, 


LATER  WRITINGS  337 

'  What  made  Crabbe  a  new  force  in  English  poetry  was  that  in 
his  verse  Pity  appears,  after  a  long  oblivion,  as  the  true  antidote 
to  Sentimentalism.' 

'Crabbe's  couplets  are  more  often  pedestrian  rather  than 
grotesque.' 

'  He  is  the  truest  realist  who  does  not  suppress  any  side  of  that 
which  may  be  seen,  if  looked  for.' 

The  three  last  sayings  are  not  quoted  from  the  Lectures, 
but  from  Ainger's  latest  work,  the  Life  of  Crabbe.  When  it 
appeared,  in  the  autumn  of  1903,  it  was  judged  very  variously. 
Two  well-known  newspapers,  he  told  a  friend,  '  complain  that 
I  am  only  a  half-hearted  admirer  of  Crabbe,  and  that 
(apparently)  I  do  not  gush  sufficiently.  This  is  rather  a 
disappointment  to  one  who  read  and  cried  over  Crabbe  when 
lie  was  a  boy,  and  undertook,  the  present  task  in  order  to 
emphasise  what  singularly  fine  qualities  the  poet  has,  not- 
withstanding all  defects  of  taste  and  technique  which 
meet  one  at  every  turn.  Surely  the  tide  has  turned  with  a 
vengeance,  in  critical  quarters   at  least.      The  man  in   the 

really  speaks  of  Crabbe  as  if  he  ranked  with  Homer  and 

Shakespeare.'  ^ 

In  this  statement  of  his,  Canon  Ainger  unconsciously  hits 
off  both  the  strong  and  the  weak  point  of  his  book.  He  had 
once  cried  over  Crabbe,  and  so,  however  long  ago  that  had 
been,  he  can  still  arrest  us  when  he  writes  of  him.  But  he 
feels  the  faults  of  taste  and  technique  so  much  that  he  misses 
some  of  Crabbe's  finest  qualities.  For  though  he  does  full 
justice  to  Crabbe's  moral  insight,  to  his  piety,  his  genius  for 
profound  epigram,  his  great  powers  of  description,  he  gives  no 
impression  of  his  intensity,  nor  has  he  any  grasp  of  his  gift 
for  dramatic  situation.  The  truth  is  that  he  and  Crabbe 
were  not  really  made  for  one  another.  Most  biographers 
need  enthusiasm  for  their  subject,  and  Ainger  needed  it 
especially,  because,  when  it  did  not  inspire  him,  he  was  apt 
to  dwell  on  the  points  most  like  himself  in  the  person  he  was 
chronicling  and  rather  to  slur  over  other  facts  which  should 

*  Quoted  by  Mr.  Holden  Hutton,  in  Burford  Papers,  as  having  been  said  to 
him.     (Essay  on  '  George  Crabbe,'  Burford  Papers. ) 

Y 


338         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

be  as  salient,  or  more  so.  '  The  humourist  and  the  punster,' 
he  wrote  of  Crabbe,^  '  contend  for  predominance  in  the  breast 
of  this  polished  gentleman  and  scholar,'  and  the  words  do  not 
ill  fit  himself.  From  this  point  of  view,  he  judges  the  poet 
finely ;  he  knows  him  well,  too,  as  teacher,  as  parish  priest,  as 
strugghng  poet,  and  the  tale  of  his  poverty  in  London  and  of 
his  rescue  by  Burke  is  admij-ably  told.  But  he  does  not  know 
Crabbe  as  a  stern  and  passionate  realist — although  he  knows 
that  he  was  one ;  hence  all  his  stating  of  the  fact  does  not 
transmit  it  to  his  readers,  nor  does  his  volume  convey  that 
sense  of  a  central  truth  which  gives  warmth  and  unity  to  the 
whole. 

Yet  when  he  comes  to  the  critical  task — the  task  of 
analysing,  not  appraising — when  he  sets  about  defining  the 
uses  and  abuses  of  realism,  there  is  no  word  to  add  or  take 
away. 

'  A  poet  is  not  the  "  best "  painter  of  nature  merely  because  he 
chooses  one  aspect  of  human  character  and  human  fortunes  rather 
than  another.  If  he  must  not  conceal  the  sterner  side,  equally  is 
he  bound  to  remember  the  sunnier  and  more  serene.  .  .  .  He 
must  remember  that  though  there  is  a  skeleton  in  every  cupboard, 
it  must  not  be  dragged  out  for  a  purpose,  nor  treated  as  if  it  were 
the  sole  inhabitant.  He  must  deal  with  the  happiness  of  life,  and 
not  only  with  its  miseries ;  with  its  harmonies  and  not  only  its 
dislocations.  He  must  remember  the  thousand  homes  in  which  is 
to  be  found  the  quiet  and  faithful  discharge  of  duty,  inspired  at 
once  and  illumined  by  the  family  affections,  and  not  forget  that 
in  such  as  these  the  strength  of  a  country  lies.  ...  It  was 
because  Crabbe  too  often  laid  greater  stress  on  the  ugliness  than 
on  the  beauty  of  things  that  he  fails  to  that  extent  to  be  the  full 
and  adequate  painter  and  poet  of  humble  life.' 

'It  is,'  he  says  elsewhere  in  the  book,  'to  the  "graver  mind" 
rather  than  to  the  "lighter  heart"  that  he  oftenest  appeals. 
Newman,  to  mention  no  small  names,  found  Crabbe's  pathos  and 
fidelity  to  Human  Nature  even  more  attractive  to  him  in  advanced 
years  than  in  youth.  There  is  indeed  much  in  common  between 
Crabbe's  treatment  of  life  and  its  problems,  and  Newman's. 
Both  may  be  called  "stern"  portrayers  of  human   nature,  not 

'  Essay  on  George  Crabbe  [Burford  Papers). 


LATER  WRITINGS  839 

only  as  intended  in  Byron's  famous  line,  but  in  Wordsworth's  use  of 
the  epithet  when  he  invoked  Duty  as  the  "  stern  Daughter  of  the 
Voice  of  God." ' 

One  possession  Alfred  Ainger  had  which  never  failed  him — 
his  pure  and  distinguished  style.  It  was  born  with  him,  and 
he  kept  it  intact  till  the  end.  Choiceness  rather  than 
brilliance  is  its  essential  quality,  and  when  he  asserted  that 
he  '  wrote  as  the  Scotsman  joked — with  deeficulty,'  he  did  not 
overstate  the  truth.  'You  have  pierced  the  joints  of  my 
armour,""  he  once  said  to  a  friend,  who  had  been  writing  about 
the  napkins  in  which  men  tied  up  their  talents  and  had  spoken 
by  the  way  of  the  paralysing  fastidiousness  that  often  deprived 
literature  of  the  most  literary  writers.  Doubtless,  he  might 
have  written  more,  but  then  he  would  not  have  been  himself, 
and  that  he  invariably  was.  Perhaps  his  gift  was  one  of 
personality  rather  than  one  of  originality,  and  this  makes  his 
work  the  harder  to  detach  from  him  and  therefore  difficult  to 
quote  from.  Of  anything  second-rate  he  was  incapable.  Good 
taste,  which  involves  good  sense,  and  the  moral  wisdom  which 
cuts  deeper,  were  what  from  first  to  last  he  made  for.  And 
in  his  attempt  to  win  them,  he  gained  something  else  besides 
— a  something  which  he  himself  has  described  as  a  distinction 
of  Charles  Lamb's.  For  us  it  also  breathes  from  his  pages : 
'  The  undying  attraction  that  belongs  to  the  unity  of  sincerity 
and  charm,  which  means  purity  of  heart,  and  tenderness — 
itself  gold  and  turning  to  gold  all  it  touches — the  charity 
which  in  literature,  as  in  life,  is  the  grace  above  all  graces.' ^ 


1  ( 


How  I  traced  Charles  Lamb  in  Hertfordshire '  (Lectures  and  Essays), 


CHAPTER    XIX 

THE   END 

Hitherto  there  had  been  no  real  break  in  Ainger'^s  strength. 
Delicate  and  changeable  his  health  always  was,  but  he  had 
the  resistance  that  so  often  belongs  to  frail  people.  Until 
1903  he  remained  active,  almost  young.  Those  who  haunted 
the  Embankment  will  remember  his  daily  walk  there ;  they 
will  keep  an  image  of  his  figure,  leaning  slightly  forward,  and 
of  his  quick  step — so  quick  that  his  companion  could  scarcely 
keep  up  with  it — and  of  his  sudden  halt  to  feed  the  gulls; 
of  the  white  birds  wheeling  round  his  upturned  head  and 
flocking  round  him  to  take  the  crumbs.  So  intent  was  he  on 
the  gulls,  that  he  was  not  aware  of  the  little  group  that  used 
to  gather  round  him,  but  would  stride  away  again  unconscious, 
bent  upon  finishing  his  constitutional.  And  until  the  summer 
of  the  same  year  he  kept  all  his  usual  public  engagements, 
remaining  faithful  as  ever  to  old  ties.  One  of  the  last 
committees  he  attended  was  that  of  the  Hampstead  Concert 
Society,  which  always  met  at  his  house  and  received  his 
counsels. 

At  Bristol,  too,  he  had  fully  kept  up  his  activities.  And 
outside  his  professional  duties — the  two  cathedral  services 
daily,  the  chapter  meetings,  the  philanthropic  chairmanships, 
the  preachings  for  neighbouring  clergymen — the  list  of  these 
activities  was  a  long  one.  Nowhere  else  was  he  so  constantly 
asked  to  read,  or  to  lecture,  for  charities  or  for  educational 
purposes:  for  a  Girls'  High  School,  for  the  Pupil  Teachers, 
for  the  boys  of  the  Cathedral  School,  to  whom,  besides  this, 
he  set  a  yearly  examination  paper  in  a  Shakespeare  play, 
himself  giving  the  prize.  And  nowhere  else,  perhaps,  did 
his  social  life  make  such  incessant  demands  upon  him.  He 
hardly  ever  dined  at  home ;  and  as,  year  by  year,  the  num- 

240 


THE   END  341 

ber  of  Bristol  friends  increased,  friends  whom  he  loved  as 
well  as  liked,  the  claims  of  friendship  were  added  to  those 
of  society. 

All  this  he  thoroughly  enjoyed,  yet  he  felt  the  strain 
almost  unconsciously,  often  attributing  his  sense  of  fatigue  to 
the  relaxing  climate  of  the  place.  From  the  first,  this  had 
oppressed  him  considerably,  though,  like  many  other  people, 
he  had  tried  to  avoid  its  ill  effects  by  living  on  the  heights  of 
Clifton.  But  he  showed  no  sign  of  giving  in,  unless  it  were 
that  in  the  last  years  he  gave  up  officiating  at  the  daily 
morning  service  and  avoided  walking  up  and  down  the  steep 
Clifton  Hill  to  and  from  the  Cathedral,  making,  for  him,  the 
great  concession  of  driving  home  every  afternoon. 

Bristol  repaid  him  by  loving  him.  A  friend  of  his,  Mr. 
Leonard,  has  left  us  a  portrait  of  him  there,  which,  though  it 
does  not — as  how  could  it? — tell  of  any  new  qualities,  yet 
gives  us  a  living  impression  of  him  at  his  work,  framed  in  by 
the  wharfs  and  thoroughfares  of  the  busiest  of  Cathedral 
cities. 

*  He  was,'  it  runs,  '  a  man  we  could  ill  spare.  .  .  .  His  presence 
counted.  .  .  .  We  liked  to  see  him  moving  through  our  streets.  .  .  . 
He  did  not  look  like  other  men.  ...  A  painter  indeed  could 
hardly  have  wished  for  a  better  subject  than  Canon  Ainger ; 
drawing  him,  perhaps,  as  he  sat  deep  in  his  chair,  his  hands  held 
up  and  clasped  together,  as  was  his  manner  sometimes  •  .  .  his 
whole  face  listening.  ...  Or  an  artist  with  a  feeling  for  colour 
might  have  left  us,  one  is  tempted  to  think,  a  picture  of  the 
preacher,  bending  over  his  paper  in  the  pulpit,  with  the  beauti- 
ful hair,  the  ivory  face,  and  the  full  and  long  white  surplice — 
hopelessly  out  of  ecclesiastical  fashion,  I  am  afraid — that  he 
allowed  himself  to  wear,' 

'  And  what  was  it  that  gave  him  his  charm  as  a  reader  ?  .  .  .  His 
voice,  if  not  very  strong,  was  of  remarkable  beauty  and  flexibility. 
It  could  be,  when  he  wished  it,  full  of  music.  I  shall  never  for- 
get the  way  in  which  he  read  the  song  of  Ariel  in  the  Tempest. 
One  could  hear  the  sea-nymphs  ringing  out  the  knell  of  the 
drowned  father.  ...  It  seemed  no  "  mortal  business,"  no  sound 
framed  by  a  human  voice.  The  very  words  were  like  a  bell. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  force  his  hearers  against  their  will,  or 


342         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

beyond  their  intelligence,  but  those  who  had  the  ear   to   hear 
might  hear.'  ^ 

The  same  friend  tells  us  how  he  once  told  him  some 
anecdote  in  a  letter.  '  Your  story  was  excellent,'  answered 
Ainger,  '  and  I  have  already  made  several  appreciative  persons 
happy  with  it.'  '  That  was  it,'  says  Mr.  Leonard,  '  he  made 
himself  and  others  "happy"  with  good  stories.' 

It  was  not  in  Bristol,  but  in  London,  in  the  summer  of 
1903,  that  a  marked  change  came  over  him.  Till  June  he 
led  his  life  as  usual,  finishing  his  biography  of  Crabbe,  enjoy- 
ing Joachim's  music,  seeing  friends.  But  in  June  influenza 
laid  him  low,  weakening  his  heart.  '  I  am  very  ill — with  two 
nurses  and  everything  handsome  about  me,'  he  wrote  while 
still  in  bed,  prostrate — even  then  cheered  by  memories  of 
Dogberry,  And  though  to  all  appearances  he  recovered, 
he  was  not  the  same  again.  Family  troubles,  too,  came 
to  sadden  him.  In  July  Mr.  Walter  Evans,  the  husband 
of  his  younger  niece,  died,  while  the  delicacy  of  the  elder 
one  had  for  some  time  caused  him  anxiety.  However,  he 
revived  in  Scotland,  although  he  was  obliged  to  give  up 
walking  much — hitherto  his  favourite  resource — and  very 
small  exertions  tired  him.  In  October  he  resumed  his  duties, 
and  threw  himself  into  them  with  his  usual  zest.  Never  did 
he  more  enjoy  the  music  at  the  Temple,  or  that  which  his 
beloved  organist,  Walford  Davies,  often  made  for  him  at 
home.  And  nothing  made  him  happier  in  these  last  months 
than  the  growing  success  of  this  younger  friend,  or  interested 
him  more  than  his  compositions,  especially  '  Everyman,'  the 
setting  of  which  to  music  had  originally  been  Ainger's 
suggestion.  The  depression  of  the  summer  had  vanished 
and  he  kept  his  engagements  without  undue  effort :  going 
down  to  Bristol  to  read  a  paper  on  preaching,  on  October 
14,  before  the  Church  Congress;  dining  on  the  Grand  Day 
at  the  Middle  Temple  to  meet  the  King ;  coming  from  his 
nephew's  home  at  Sandwich  to  attend  a  Literary  Fund  Com- 
mittee one  morning,  and  travelling  to  Cambridge  the  same 
afternoon.  On  November  19,  he  had  pledged  himself  to 
1  Canon  Ainger — a  Short  Study,  by  George  Hare  Leonard. 


THE  END  343 

preach  at  St.  Paul's  for  the  London  Choir  Association,  of 
which  Dr.  Davies  was  the  conductor,  and  the  strain  upon  his 
voice  and  his  strength  resulted  in  exhaustion  ;  nor  was  his  state 
much  improved  by  preaching  three  days  after  in  the  Chapel 
Royal.  This  was  his  last  sermon.  And  the  lecture  that,  on 
the  23rd,  he  gave  upon  Cowper  at  Lord  Brassey's,  proved  to 
be  his  last  lecture.  Many  remarked  that  day  how  ill  he 
looked ;  and  when  he  returned  home,  he  himself  said  that  he 
had  almost  been  compelled  to  sit  upon  the  table,  so  weak  and 
unable  to  stand  had  he  felt  before  he  got  through  his  task. 
He  consulted  his  old  friend,  Dr.  Bowles,  who  found  that 
there  was  mischief  at  his  heart  and  forbade  him  to  preach  or 
to  walk. 

At  first  Ainger  thought  that  the  discomfort  was  passing, 
that  all  would  soon  be  as  before  and  that  January  would  see 
him  in  Bristol ;  but  gradually  the  truth  was  borne  in  upon 
him,  and  though  he  was  not  seriously  anxious,  he  knew  that  a 
great  change  had  come.  At  the  end  of  November  he  had 
resolved  to  resign  his  canonry.  He  felt  the  touch  of  age 
upon  him,  the  first  real  weakening  of  the  powers  that  had 
never  failed  him  till  now,  'This  is  the  saddest  day  of  my 
life,'  he  said,  when  he  sent  the  final  letter  about  Bristol,  His 
resignation  was  met  by  an  outburst  of  regret,  of  letters  both 
from  friends  and  strangers.  Perhaps  the  one  that  gratified 
him  most  came  from  Mr,  Arnold  Thomas,  a  Nonconformist 
minister  near  Bristol,  whom  he  hardly  knew, 

'Sneyd  Park,  Bristol. 

'  Dear  Canon  Ainger  '  (it  runs)^ — '  It  was  on  my  mind  to  write 
to  you  when  I  read,  to  my  great  sorrow,  of  your  resignation,  but 
I  felt  that,  on  the  whole,  it  would  be  kinder  not  to  trouble  you. 

'  Now,  however,  that  you  have  replied  by  anticipation  to  any 
such  letters  as  this,  I  feel  the  more  free  to  write  and  say  that  I 
grieve  very  much  over  the  loss  which  this  city  has  sustained. 
You  have  been  a  great  reconciling  influence  here.  And  we  sorely 
need  such  influences.  Amid  all  the  brawling  that  goes  on,  we 
must  thank  Heaven  for  every  clear  eye  that  is  steadily  fixed  on  the 
best  and  essential  things,  and  every  voice  that  is  heard  bearing 
witness,  without  clamour  or  bitterness,  to  the  noble  simplicities 


344         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

of  piety  and  goodness.  Such  an  eye  and  such  a  voice  we  have 
had  for  these  sixteen  years  in  Bristol,  and  now — but  we  will 
praise  God  for  His  gift,  and  try  to  be  the  right  sort  of  people 
ourselves, — Yours  most  truly,  H,  Arnold  Thomas.' 

And  this  is  Canon  Ainger's  answer : 

'  Dear  Mr.  Thomas, — There  are  so7ne  letters — kind  and  grati- 
fying— that  I  have  been  able  to  answer  only  through  the  public 
press,  but  yotirs  must  not  be  one  of  these !  For  indeed  it  gave 
me  pleasure  of  a  deep  and  rare  sort.  I  think  I  may  say  without 
presumption  that  you  have  truly  interpreted  one  chief  aim  and 
object  that  I  have  had  in  view  during  the  years  of  my  connection 
with  Bristol.  I  liave  tried  to  lay  stress  upon  the  things  that 
matter :  the  great  things  of  God ;  and  to  show  how  miserably,  by 
the  side  of  these,  bulk  the  petty  things  about  which  so  many  of 
us  spend  our  lives  in  arguing.  It  has  been,  I  assure  you,  one  of 
the  chiefest  comforts  of  my  Bristol  career  that  I  learned  from 
time  to  time  that  my  Nonconformist  brethren,  such  as  yourself, 
looked  favourably  upon  my  efforts,  and  regarded  me  as  a  fellow- 
worker  with  themselves. 

'  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  more  of  you ;  but  the  incidents  of 
a  canonical  residence  make  it  difficult  to  find  time  for  much  social 
and  intellectual  communion  with  any  of  one's  fellow-teachers. 

'  I  thank  you  heartily  for  your  letter,  and  feel  the  better  and 
braver  for  it. 

'  I  suppose  you  are  seldom  in  London,  or  it  would  give  me 
extreme  pleasure  to  see  and  entertain  you  at  my  Temple 
House.  .  .  . 

'  Once  more  thanking  you  deeply,  I  remain,  dear  Mr.  Thomas, 
most  truly  yours,  Alfred  Ainger.' 

And  he  writes  in  the  same  strain  to  Miss  Sturge  from  the 
Temple : 

'  It  has  been  ever  my  earnest  desire  and  aim  in  my  ministra- 
tions at  Bi'istol  to  lay  stress  ...  on  the  great  truths  which  unite 
us,  and  to  keep  in  the  background  the  petty  fancies  and  fabrica- 
tions that  keep  us  apart.  My  real  and  lasting  reward  was  in  the 
appreciation  of  those  whose  approval  I  valued,  and  the  friendship 
of  so  many  that  I  hope  I  may  never  forfeit.' 

Meanwhile  friends  were  flocking  round  his  sofa  in  London 


THE  END  345 

and  doing  their  best  to  cheer  the  hours  of  inactivity  which 
went  so  against  his  nature.  He  had  often  longed  for  repose, 
but  only  as  a  longing  could  it  have  pleased  him.  'The  rest 
of  which  he  dreamed  when  he  retired  from  professional  work 
could  only  mean  to  such  a  temperament  .  .  .  restlessness' — 
these  words  of  his  own  about  Lamb  equally  fit  his  case.  Talk 
was  now  his  great  resource,  for  reading  easily  fatigued  him 
and  writing  was  impossible. 

'  November  27,  1903. 

*  My  dear  Lathbury  '  (he  wrote  to  the  editor  of  the  Pilot), — 
'  You  must  not  be  angry  with  me — I  have  not  been  well  of  late 
— and  indeed  my  heart  has  been  playing  tricks,  probably  (my 
doctor  says)  as  a  pleasant  outcome  of  my  influenza  in  the  summer. 
"  Drop  the  Pilot  " — never!  As  long  as  I  have  a  sixpence  it  shall 
have  threepence.  But  never  again  will  I  write  "reviews"  or 
compose  round  about  any  book.  I  can't  do  it,  and  I  hate  it !  I 
wish  I  could  think  of  any  subject  on  which  I  could  write,  but  I 
know  so  little  of  anything,  and  everything  has  been  done. 

'  Your  reviewer  of  my  Crabhe  is  handsome  enough  towards  me. 
But  why  does  he  have  his  knife  into  the  poor  poet,  and  insinuate 
that  he  took  Orders  simply  and  solely  for  a  livelihood .''  There  is 
no  foundation  for  such  a  statement. 

'  I  know  that  Crabbe  was  not  a  High  Churchman,  but  his 
subsequent  attitude  towards  Dissenters  ought  to  have  warmed 
the  heart  of  any  contributor  to  the  Pilot. — Ever  yours, 

'A.    AiNGER.' 

Happily  music  never  failed  in  its  po^ver  to  soothe  him,  and 
more  than  one  was  at  hand  to  play  or  sing  to  him.  There 
was  a  memorable  evening  in  December  when  Dr.  Davies 
played  and  the  two  planned  a  future  rendering  of  La  Belle 
Dame  sans  Merci,  with  Ainger  to  read  it  and  his  friend  to 
provide  the  accompaniment — an  interpretation  like  their 
former  achievements,  The  Brook  and  The  Ancient  Mariner. 
Elated  by  the  music  he  had  heard.  Canon  Ainger  once  more 
took  up  a  volume  of  Wordsworth  and  read  '  The  Ode  to 
Duty'  and  the  'Lines  on  the  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
from  Abbotsford  for  Naples,"  letting  his  voice  linger  lovingly 
on  his  favourite  line  : 

'Wafting  your  charge  to  soft  Parthenope.' 


346         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

He  read  'Rose  Aylmer,"  too,  to  the  little  group  of  friends 
in  the  room — the  group  that  was  to  hear  him  no  more. 
Christmas  came  on  apace.  On  the  Sunday  before  Christmas 
Day  he  sat  in  the  vestry  and  listened  to  part  of  the  Christmas 
Oratorio,  and  on  Christmas  Day  itself  he  enjoyed  the  carols 
sung  by  the  choir-boys,  who  came  to  him  in  the  early  morn- 
ing. That  day  he  was  present  in  church  and  assisted  at  the 
Holy  Communion,  nor  was  he  absent  from  the  service  on  the 
two  following  Sundays.  He  seemed  decidedly  better,  and  his 
spirits  rose  accordingly.  '  My  doctors  say  I  have  got  a  dilated 
heart — but  your  kindness  has  made  it  also  a  delighted  one,' 
he  wrote  to  a  friend,  Mrs.  Causton,  who  had  just  knitted 
him  a  waistcoat — and  one  (as  he  announced  with  pride)  that 
the  tailor  called  'an  almost  perfect  fit.'  He  liked  to  make 
jokes  about  his  heart.  '  Although  the  doctor  says  my  heart 
is  wrong,  you  shall  always  find  it  in  the  right  place,'  he  said 
(quoting  his  favourite  Hood)  to  another  friend,  on  New  Year's 
Eve.i 

On  January  5  he  was  allowed  to  travel  to  Darley  Abbey. 
Had  he  some  vague  premonition  of  the  end  ?  Little  things 
seem  to  point  to  it.  '  I  am  just  now  barred  from  all  work 
and  exciting  matters,'  he  writes  from  there,  'and  am  rest- 
ing by  my  physician's  orders  as  much  as  possible.  I  am 
staying  here  with  my  widowed  niece — the  younger  of  the  two 
to  whom  I  was  long  ago  left  guardian  and  who  have  been 
to  me  as  daughters.'  These  last  words,  sent,  as  they  were, 
to  a  stranger  and  from  so  reserved  a  man,  are  not  without 
significance ;  and  little  chance  expressions  in  other  letters  that 
he  wrote  at  this  time  convey  a  sense  that  just  now  he  was 
realising,  with  almost  the  acuteness  of  parting,  the  things  that 
had  made  life  precious  to  him. 

The  first  days  of  his  stay  went  by  peacefully,  diversified  by 
country  drives  and  undisturbed,  save  by  his  anxiety  to  pro- 
vide preachers  at  the  Temple. 

'Do  you  know  any  "mute,  inglorious"  Hookers,  whom  I  might 
allow  to  air  their  fancies  in  that  august  arena  ? '  he  wrote  to  Mrs. 

^  Thomas  Hood  told  a  friend  that  the  doctors  said  his  heart  was  *  hung  too 
low.'     'Never  mind,'  he  added,  '■you  shall  always  find  it  in  the  right  place.' 


THE  END  347 

Andrew  Lang  on  January  10.  'I  am  thinking  of  doing  Hood 
for  the  Men  of  Letters  Series — expanding  for  the  purpose  a 
memoir  I  once  prefixed  to  an  edition  of  his  Poems  in  the  Eversley 
Series.  Did  you  ever  read  it  ?  I  ahnost  think  it  is  my  best  piece 
of  prose  thus  far.' 

But  he  did  not  gain  in  strength. 

'  All  your  other  news '  (he  wrote  to  Walford  Davies  on  January 
12),  'as  that  of  our  boys  taking  part  in  the  Bach  Choir  Chorus 
was,  you  will  believe,  music  to  my  ears.  And  indeed  in  every 
success  that  you  achieve,  you  have  no  warmer  sympathisers  and 
rejoicers  than  the  household  of  the  "  Master's  House."  ...  As 
for  myself,  I  don't  know  of  much  change  in  my  physical  condi- 
tion. After  a  past  week  of  "physic,"  I  am  now  to  pass  a  fresh 
week  without  any  !  Which  reminds  me  of  the  Irishman  who  fed 
his  pig  one  day,  and  starved  it  the  next,  in  order  to  produce 
"streaky"  bacon.  But  I  suppose  thei'e  is  some  method  in  the 
inscrutable  ways  of  the  medical  profession.  .  .  .' 

On  January  19,  he  read  for  the  last  time,  to  a  girl  who 
was  staying  in  the  house  and  whom  he  did  not  want  to  dis- 
appoint. He  asked  her  to  come  close  up  to  him  so  that  she 
might  hear,  and  he  read  her  Thackeray's  'Little  Dinner  at 
Timmins's,'  with  all  his  old  spirit.  That  night  he  went  up 
to  his  room,  never  to  come  down  again.  He  had  caught  a 
severe  chill,  and  the  bad  symptoms  at  the  heart  reasserted 
themselves.  On  the  evening  of  the  22nd  he  sent  down  a 
message  to  his  elder  niece,  asking  her  to  go  to  him.  When 
she  came  he  began  to  speak  rather  hurriedly ;  he  said  that  he 
thought  he  should  not  live ;  that  he  had  no  fear  of  death ; 
that,  although  he  knew  all  his  faults,  his  faith  upheld  and 
consoled  him.  'My  life,"  he  added,  'has  been  happy,  and 
no  one  has  had  such  friends  as  I  have.""  Of  many  of  these  he 
talked  with  love  and  thankfulness,  and  he  charged  her  with 
special  messages  to  them.  After  his  first  words  he  was  calm 
and  collected,  and  he  expressed  very  lucidly  his  wishes  as  to 
certain  matters  of  business.  In  the  next  few  days  he  grew 
worse,  but  he  did  not  again  allude  to  his  death,  excepting 
once,  not  long  before  it  happened,  when,  thinking  that  no 


348         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 

one  heard  him,  he  whispered,  '  The  end   has  come,  the  end 
has  come,  I  only  stand  and  wait.' 

'Well,  nurse,  you  will  have  a  very  troublesome  patient,' 
was  his  greeting  when  the  sick-nurse  came,  but  he  did  not 
fulfil  his  prediction.  He  was  perfectly  patient,  even  cheerful, 
as  long  as  he  remained  conscious,  and  tenderly  considerate 
of  others.  Pneumonia  soon  supervened,  and  matters  became 
more  critical.  Dr.  Bowles,  his  friend  of  fifty  years,  was  sent 
for.  '  Robert,  you  have  come  to  take  me  out  of  the  jaws  of 
death,'  he  said  to  him  when  he  arrived — but  generally  he  tried 
to  make  light  of  his  bodily  distresses.  '  Never  mind,  it  will 
soon  be  all  right,'  was  his  usual  formula  after  any  acute  bout 
of  suffering. 

He  had  moments  of  revival,  but  they  were  transitory  and 
his  strength  quickly  sank  again.    His  impressions  became  con- 
fused, yet  confused  in  a  characteristic  way.     He  thought,  for 
instance,  that  a  photograph  from  an  Italian  picture  which 
hung  opposite  his  bed  was  the  portrait  of  Frederick  Denison 
Maurice,  whose  spirit,  it  would  seem,  was  still  with  him  and 
guarded  the  approaches  of  death.     In  his  last  week,  the  first 
week  of  February,  he  spoke  little  to  others,  but  '  he  constantly 
murmured  the  names  of  those  with  whom  he  had  lived  in  his 
younger  days,  and  often  repeated  the  name  of  his  faithful 
old  Nurse,  Lem.      Sometimes  he  would  hum  a  few  bars  of 
music,  and  one  morning  early,  when  his  window  was  open 
and  he  heard  the  birds  singing,  he  said,  "  Those  were  very 
agreeable  voices  I  heard  this  morning.'"     These  were  almost 
his  last  coherent  words.     When  his  niece  came  into  his  room 
on  Monday  morning,  the  8th  of  February,  she  saw  that  he  had 
greatly  altered.     As  she  stood  near  his  bed,  *  he  opened  his 
eyes  and  gave  an  unforgettable  look — a  wonderful  look  which 
seemed  to  express  surprise  and  happiness.     It  was  as  if  he  had 
been  at  the  gates  of  Heaven  and  had  come  back  for  a  moment.' 
All  the  morning    he   lay  unconscious,  and   at   a  quarter   to 
one  he  passed  away.     The  next  day,  February  9,  would  have 
been  his  sixty-seventh  birthday. 

Many  of  his  friends  came  from  London  to  attend  his  funeral 
in   Derbyshire;    many  more   were  present  at   the   memorial 


THE  END  349 

service  in  the  Temple  Church,  where  Dr.  Davies  played  the 
Master's  favourite  song  of  Schubert — the  beautiful  Litanei 
aller  Seelen.  And  he  lies  at  rest,  as  he  desired,  next  to  his 
friend,  Walter  Evans,  in  the  churchyard  of  Darley  Abbey. 
On  the  cross  above  the  grave  are  the  words :  *  I  know 
Whom  I  have  believed,  and  am  persuaded  that  He  is  able 
to  keep  that  which  I  have  committed  unto  Him  against  that 
day.' 

The  story  of  Alfred  Ainger  is  the  story  of  a  personality, 
and  of  one  more  than  usually  elusive.  The  effect  that  he 
produced  upon  the  world  is  inseparable  from  that  of  his 
presence,  and  in  his  case,  more  than  in  most,  it  may  be  said 
that  the  letter  killeth.  His  spiritual  message,  though  a 
permanent,  was  a  quiet  one,  more  akin  to  the  humble  pieties 
of  daily  life  than  to  the  problems  of  modern  thought.  He 
belonged  to  no  main  road,  either  of  time  or  of  literature ; 
his  gift  was  not  for  greatness,  but  distinction.  And  it  was 
in  the  winding  bypaths,  with  their  unexpected  twists  and 
turnings,  with  their  sudden  outlooks  on  fair  places,  that  his 
figure  was  wont  to  wander.  There  it  is  that  he  will  still  be 
found  by  those  who  seek  him  out ;  that  he  will  still  speak  to 
those  who  love  him  for  what  he  is. 


.9 


INDEX 


AiNGEB,  Cauon  Alfred  ; — 

His  birth  and  descent,  1-4: ;  cliild- 
hood,  4-6 ;  early  literary  abilities, 
6,  28  ;  dramatic  power,  6-8,  25-7, 
29,111, 116;  musical  tastes,  9,23- 
4,  99 ;  health,  9,  24,  34,  81,  119, 
127,    173,    257,    259,    310,   340, 
343  ;  schooldays,  9,  11  ;  at  King's 
College,  20 ;  at  Cambridge,  33 ; 
his   peculiarities,  25,   120,    283; 
personal  appearance,  32,  87,  185, 
282,  340 ;  religion,  9,  65-9,  201, 
310-11,     315,     344,     347;      un- 
certainty as    to    profession,   45, 
64 ;     ordination    (deacon),     72 ; 
(priest),    80 ;    work   at  Alrewas, 
73,    75;    at    Sheffield,   80;    ap- 
pointed Reader  to  the  Temple, 
85 ;  his  life   in   chambers,   101 ; 
home  at  Hampstead,   117;   can- 
onry  at  Bristol,   137 ;  LL.D.   of 
Glasgow,  139  ;  his  resignation  of 
Temple  Readership,  257  ;  accept- 
ance of  St.  Edward's,  Cambridge, 
258  ;  travels,  259  ;  Master  of  the 
Temple,    366;    Chaplain  to  the 
Queen,  273  ;  as  lecturer,  185  ;  as 
preacher,    314-25 ;    his    attitude 
toward  literature,  187,  193 ;  art, 
200;  music,  100,  121,  288,  345, 
348  ;    wit  and   humour,  206-15, 
310  ;  failing  powers,  343  ;  death, 
348. 

Letters  of,  to  : — 

'Jocky,'  5;  a  little  girl,  95-8, 
104;  Atkinson,  Mrs.,  76,  77, 
95;  Atkinson,  Mr.,  83,  86; 
Bather,  Archdeacon,  150-1,  258  ; 


Beeching,  Canon,  297,  300  ;  Bos- 
worth-Smith,  Mr.,  308;  Bowles, 
Mrs.,  105;  Browne,  Mr.  R.  C, 
31  ;  Campbell,  Mr.  Dykes,  129, 
138,  154-6,  158,  160-2,  164,  166, 
169-70,  175,  176, 178,  234-5,  237, 
244,246-7,  249-54;  Causton, Mrs., 
346;  Cave,  Mr.,  170, 293 ;  Davies, 
Dr.  Walford,  347;  Donne,  Mr. 
Mowbray,    159,    271,   298;    Du 
Maurier,  Mr.,  135-6, 140-3, 172-4, 
177,  181-3,  260,  262,  269,  279; 
Dyer,   Mr.    Louis,   313;    Elder- 
ton,  Mr.  Wm.,  35-50,  64,  67-8; 
Gelderd   Somervell,    Mrs.,  154; 
Gillies,  MissMargaret,123;  Gosse, 
Mr.  Edmund,  175-6,177,  249, 256, 
267,  289,  297;    King,  Miss,  30, 
42 ;    Lang,    Mrs.    Andrew,  299, 
301,  303-4;  Lathbury,  Mr.,  174, 
345  ;  Lee,  Mr.  Sidney,  255,  265  ; 
Lewes,  Mrs.,  124  ;  Loder,   Mr., 
258;   Macmillan,  Mr.   Malcolm, 
151,    153;    Menzies,    Mrs.,   91; 
Nichol,    Miss,    66;    Paul,    Mr. 
Herbert,     307 ;      Riviere,     Mr. 
Briton,  298  ;  Roscow,  Miss,  304  ; 
Shorthouse,  Mr.  J.  H.,  200,  204 ; 
Smith,    Mrs.,    130-2,    156,    163, 
263,   272,    289-95;    Smith,    Mr. 
Horace,    29,    91,   167-9,   179-80, 
257-8,  266,   271,  295,  301,  303, 
307  ;  Smith,  Mr.  (Sheffield),  152, 
171 ;  Squire,  Mr.  Barclay,  308 ; 
Stevenson,   Miss    F.,    105,    149, 
152-3,    195;    Sturge,   Miss,   183, 
306,  344 ;  Tennyson,  Lord,  302  ; 
Thomas,     Mr.      Arnold,      343; 

S61 


352         LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 


Thompson^  Miss,  125-7,  261, 
289. 

Aiuger,  Canon  Alfred,  Letters  to, 
from : — 

Ayrton,  Mr.,  229;  Bacon,  Vice- 
Chancellor,  226;  Du  Maurier, 
Mr.,  144-8;  Hunter,  Miss,  228; 
Lockwood,  Mr.,  306;  Short- 
house,  Mr.,  202,  204;  Swinburne, 
Mr.  A.  C,  254;  Thomas,  Mr. 
Arnold,  343  ;  Tween,  Mrs.,  235. 

Poems  of: — 

Addressed  to  persons,  81,  85,  89, 
101,  109;  humorous,  22,  82,  92, 
113,  127,  139,  151,  153, 155,  158, 
167,  170,  174,  208-9,  210-11,  213, 
262,  274 ;  in  sorrow,  83,  85,  92, 
102  ;  serious,  82,  104,  110,  168. 
Alfred,  3-5,  64. 


—  Adeline.     See  Roscow. 
Marianne.     See  Wiss. 


Athens.  See  Letters  (Miss  Thomp- 
son). 

Atkinson,  Rev.  G.,  73,  76,  81,  85. 

Authors,  Society  of,  277. 

Ayrton,  Mr.  VVm.,  verses  of  Lamb 
to,  229. 

Bacon,  Vice-Chancellor.    Sec  Lamb. 

Baird,  Miss  D.,  277. 

Balfour,  Mr.  A.  J.,  286. 

Bather,  Archdeacon.     See  Letters. 

Bear,  52. 

Beck,   Mr.,  Ainger   described   by, 

282. 
Beeching,  Canon,    187,   315.      See 

also  Letters. 
Bidder,  Mr.  G.  P.,  33. 
Blakesmoor,   traces    of    Lamb    in, 

232. 
Books,  the  uses  of,  106. 
Bowles,  Dr.,  343,  348. 

Mrs.     See  Letters. 

Bristol,  Ainger  at,  138,  185,  341, 

343. 
Brooke,  Stopford,  secession  of,  150. 
Brooks,  Phillips,  150,  314. 


Brough,  Robert,  14. 
Brown,  Mr.  Horatio,  275. 
Browne,  Richard  C,  21,  23,  31,  64  ; 
remarks  of,  on  Ainger,  111,  314. 
Burns,  Robert,  285. 

Canton  Jab,  232  {note),  268. 

Causton,  Mrs. ,  346. 

Cave,  Mr.  D.,  holiday  with,  259. 

Christian  Institutions,  Stanley's,  171. 

Coates,  Miss,  118. 

Collins,  Mr.  Wilkie,  16. 

Colvin,    Sidney,    article    in    Mac- 

millan  by,  156. 
Concert    Committee,    Hampstead, 

Ainger's   connection    with,    122, 

340. 

Cornwall,  Ainger's  visit  to,  142. 
Cottle,  Joseph,  letter  of  Lamb  to, 

237  {note). 
Cowley,  poem  of,  281. 
Crabbe,  Ainger's  Life  of,  302,  331, 

337-8. 
Criticism,     Literary,     Ainger     on, 

198-200. 

Darley  Abbey,  128,  174,  288,  346, 

349. 
Davies,  Dr.  Walford,  287,  342,  345, 

349. 
Davis,   Mr.   J.    E.,  account   of  T. 

Manning  by,  230. 
Dickens,  Charles,  11,  19,  115-16. 
Dionysia,  52. 

Dobson,  Mr.  Austin,  275. 
Domett,  Alfred,  Browning's  '  \Var- 

ing,'  94. 
Donne,    Mr.    Mowbray,    276.      See 

also  Letters. 
'  Doubleday,'  186. 
Drama,  Ainger  on  the,  113-15. 
Du  Maurier,  George,  poem  of,  137; 

burial  of,  281.     See  also  Letters. 
Dyer,   Mr.   Louis,   113.      See  also 

Letters. 

Education,  Popular,  Ainger's  ser- 
mon on,  90. 


INDEX 


353 


Effigies  Poeticee,  Procter's,  238. 

Egg,  Augustus,  13. 

Elderton,  Wm.,  21,  69  {note).     See 

also  Letters. 
'  Elia.'     See  Lamb,  Charles. 
Euphuism,  Past  and  Present,  187. 
Evans,    Mr.   Walter,    descent    of, 

129. 

160,  342,  349. 

Exaggeration,  Literary,  Ainger  on, 

193. 

Faucit,  Miss  Helen,  112,  335. 

Fawcett,  Henry,  34. 

Fine  Arts   Society,  connection   of 

Mr.  Alfred  Ainger  with,  3. 
FitzGerald,  Edward,  216,  335. 
Frazer,  Dr.  J.  G.,  285. 
FuUarton,  Mr.,  88,  101. 
Furniss,  Harry,  183. 

^     Gillies,  Miss  Margaret,  122. 
Glasgow,  University  of,  139. 
Gorst,  J.  E.,33. 
Gosse,   Edmund,   150,   174  {note), 

286.     See  also  Letters. 
Green,  J.  R.,  101. 
Grove,  Sir  George,  99. 
Gully,  W.  C.,33. 
Gutch,  John  Matthew,  254. 

Hampstead,  Life  of  Ainger  at,  117- 

129. 
Hampstead  Annual,  notice  of  Ainger 

by  du  Maurier  in  the,  281. 
Haslehurst,  Rev.  Richard,  72. 

Mrs.,  73,  83. 

Haweis,    Mr.    H.    R.,    the    Lion 

started  by,  51. 
Hill,  Mr.  Alsager  Hay,  verses  of,  74. 
Hood,   Thomas,  Ainger's   Life   of, 

826  ;  genius  of,  330  ;  misfortunes 

of,  328  ;  his  meeting  with  Lamb, 

329  ;  marriage  of,  329  ;  National 

Tales,  330. 
Hopkins,  Dr. ,  Temple  Organist,  299. 
Hospital  Committee,  King's  College, 

Ainger  and  the,  340. 


Hunter,  Miss  S.  A. ,  Lamb's  Poem 
on,  228. 

Ilbert,  Sir  Courtenay,  275. 
Inns  of  Court  Mission,  Interest  of 
Ainger  in  the,  283. 

Jack,  Professor,  33. 
Jagger,  Miss,  4. 
James,  Miss,  118,  122. 
Jerrold,  Douglas,  13. 
Joachim,  Madame,  111  {note). 
Johnson,  Dr.,  Sermon  on,  132. 
Johnston,  Misses,  8,  122. 

King,  Mr.,  11,  30. 

Misses,  11,  20,  30,  91. 

King's  College   Shakespearian   So- 
ciety, first  President  of,  25. 
Kingley,  Charles,  29,  65,  151. 

Lamb,  Charles,  Analogy  of  Ainger 
to,  216,  220 ;  Ainger's  works  con- 
cerning, 217,  221  ;  genius  of, 
218,  222-3;  traces  of,  in  Herts, 
231,  235;  letter  about,  226; 
friendship  of,  with  Mrs.  Tween, 
233. 

Lang,  Mr.  Andrew,  150,  285,  302. 

Mrs.     See  Letters. 

Latham,  Rev.  G.  D.  See  Inns  of 
Court  Mission. 

Lathbury,  Mr. ,  308.  See  also  Letters. 

Lectures,  185,  187,  331. 

Lee,  Sidney,  150. 

Leech,  John,  13. 

'  Lem,'  2,  349. 

Lemon,  Mark,  13,  17. 

Leonard,  Mr.,  descriptions  of  Ainger 
by,  185-6,  342. 

Lion,  origin  and  end  of  the,  51-2 ; 
contributions  to  the,  53,  59,  62. 

Literature,  English,  object  of,  168. 

English,  teaching  of,  187. 

True  andFalse  Humour  in,  187. 

Loder,  Mr. ,  Ainger  described  by,  231 . 

Maarten  Maartkns,  Ainger's  verses 
to,  286. 


354 


LIFE  OF  ALFRED  AINGER 


MacDouald,  George,  Aiuger's  criti- 
cism of  work  by,  150. 

Mackery  Eud,  expedition  to,  235. 

Macmillan,  Mr,  Alexander,  62, 108, 
186. 

Mr.  Malcolm,  108. 

Mr.  George,  108. 

Misses,  109. 

Macmillan  s  Magazine,  106. 

Manning,  Thomas,  account  of,  229 
{note). 

Maurice,  Rev.  F.  D,,  10,  19,  20, 
38,  62,  65,  314. 

Millais,  142,  144 ;  death  of,  280. 

Mitford,  Mr.,  China  vases  of,  232 
{note). 

Musical  Readings,  287. 

Newman,  Cardinal,  l7l,  338. 
Nichol,  Mrs.,  2,  5. 

Marianne,  66. 

Norris,  Randal.     See  Lamb. 
Nott,  Dr.  G.  F.,  254  {note). 

Oyster  Feast,  the,  82. 

Picture  Puns,  the.  Hood's,  170. 
Pilot,  The,  309,  345. 
Planche,  J.  R.,  15. 
Politics,  Ainger  and,  286. 
Preaching,  Ainger  on,  312. 
Punch,  116,  135,  183, 268,  276, 289. 
Puns,  263. 

Reynolds,  Miss  Jane,  329. 
Riviere,  Briton,  296 :  see  also  Letters. 

Hugh,  picture  of  Ainger  by,  296. 

Robertson,  Q5. 

Robinson,  Crabb,  remarks  of,  on 
T.  Manning,  231. 

Dr.,  Master  of  the  Temple,  85. 

Roscow,  Dr.,  83. 

Mrs.,  4,  7,  31,  88,  89,  93. 

Sandford,  Mrs.,  260  (no^e). 
Sermons,  passages   from   Ainger's, 
315-25. 


Shakespeare's  Art,  Three  Stages  of, 

187. 
Shorthouse,  Mr.  J.  H.   See  Letters. 
Sidgwick,  Henry,  51,  302. 
Smith,  Mrs.     See  Letters. 
Mr.  H.,  21,  24,  33,    52,    73, 

84.     See  also  Letters. 
Stanfield,  Clarkson,  13,  16. 
Stephen,  Mr.  Leslie,  33. 
Stevenson,  Miss  F.     See  Letters. 
Stone,  Frank,  13. 

Tabley,  Lord  de,  275. 

Temple,  Ainger's  life  at  the,  283. 

Sermons  preached  at  the,  90, 

310-25. 
Temple,  Dr.,  moderation  of,  312. 
Tennyson,  poetry  of,  23,  196. 
Thackeray,  13. 
Thompson,  Miss  Mary,  94.    See  also 

Letters. 
Trevelyan,  Geoi-ge,  51. 
Trilby,  268,  277,  280. 
Tween,  Mrs,  232-3.   See  also  Letters. 

Unitarians,  150. 

University  College  Hospital,  Archi- 
tect of,  2. 
University  Magazine,  50. 

Vaughan,  Dean,  103. 
Von    Glehn,   family    of,    Ainger's 
friendship  for  the,  100,  101,  299. 

Ward,  Dr.  A.  W.,  33;  verses  of, 
127-8  ;  with  Ainger  at  Stratford, 
334-5. 

Whitby,  Ainger  at,  280. 

Widford,  Charles  Lamb  in,  232. 

Wilkins,  Mary,  writings  of,  176. 

Wiss,  Mrs.,  4,  7,  69,  110,  149. 

Wit,  208,  214,  286,  210,  310. 

Wordsworth,  poem  of,  93.  . 

Young,  Miss  Emma,  94.  '^^  ' 


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